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“I can’t accept this,” the shopkeeper said, pushing Zeri’s change back at her. “It’s just spare parts. You’ve done too much to help since the Mist.” Restless, Zeri looked around. Familiar streets showed unfamiliar loss—homes and shops battered by wicked sorcery that nearly ended the world. People were missing. Families were hurting. But crowds still gathered at the Entresol markets. Zeri didn’t understand exactly what had happened, but she knew this: Zaun would rebuild, and she would help. She frowned at the shopkeeper’s work-hardened hands and pushed her own forward. “Get some banana cues. For your girls.” The shopkeeper sighed, then smiled. Zeri continued through the market, recalling her grandma’s oft-repeated reminders. “Ignore old man Shay—his parts are always rusted! Line up early at Auntie Maria’s—her marinated chicken is divine!” Zeri admitted her grandma could sometimes seem annoying, but she couldn’t deny that the woman was right. Her grandma knew the market and its people inside out, like how Moe’s daughters loved caramelized bananas. And it was in moments like this where that intimacy proved helpful. “C’mere, rat!” Zeri spun toward the noise in time to see a boy scurrying through the crowd. Two men tailed him, one short and square, the other tall with lanky limbs. Their outfits were unmistakable. Chem-baron thugs. As the boy darted by, Zeri snatched his arm. “There, quick,” she said, pointing with her lips at Moe’s shop. The shopkeeper nodded knowingly. The frightened boy stood still. “Trust me—go!” The boy sprinted over, ducking under a table that Moe quickly covered with cloth. “Hoy! Looking for someone?” Zeri shouted at the lackeys as they approached. The men shoved past the locals. “Yeah, a kid. Just ran through here. You see ‘im?” asked the stocky one. “Maybe. Maybe not.” The man narrowed his eyes. “Tell us. We won’t hurt you.” “Doubt that. But let’s skip to the part where I hurt you instead.” The man laughed. “With what?” Zeri reached for where her gun was usually strapped, only to find nothing there. Crap. Must’ve left it at mom's workshop—again. Well, time to improvise. She rubbed her hands together and started running in place. The thugs straightened in surprise. “Is she... dancing?” observed the lanky one. “Who cares?” his partner squawked. “Nab her already!” Zeri’s hands and feet became a blur. The gear on her jacket’s back, a limiter device she called the Sparkpack, spun with building electricity. In a blink, she zipped between the men, bowling them over in a trail of wild lightning. Stray currents bounced from her body onto nearby doors and awnings, leaving little embers. “Woo!” Zeri skid to a screeching halt. The lackeys lay collapsed on the ground. Her jaw dropped as she noticed a blackened awning collapse and fall to the street. “Oh, sorry! I—” “Don’t worry about it,” said Moe, gesturing under the table for the kid to come out. “You’re amazing!” the boy blurted, arms stretched wide. “You gotta help me. They still have my parents.” “What? Where?” Zeri asked. “Corner of Brasscopper Alley! A factory. They... they took them there. And others. I saw it!” “Got it,” Zeri nodded. “What’s your name?” “Timik.” “Timik, I’ll get your parents.” Zeri’s eyes met Moe’s. “Mind doing me another favor?” “Sure thing.” Moe patted Timik’s head. “Hey, kiddo. Want some banana cues for dinner?” Like its neighboring streets, Brasscopper Alley housed rows of chem-baron factories. Soot filled the air, heavy enough to taste. Who else but the barons would force people to work in these conditions? On the corner, a few guards reeking of less-than-fine spirits played cards by a run-down building with rusted double doors. Just like Timik described. Zeri touched her belt, ensuring her gun was secure. She looked for another way in, spotting a rickety air vent large enough to crawl through halfway up a nearby wall. She jumped for the opening, coming up inches short. Stepping back, Zeri ran, her feet catching sparks. She hopped higher this time, boosted by her electricity. “You already played that card!” she heard a guard growl as her fingers gripped the vent’s edge. “Did not!” snapped another. “And you woulda known too if yer head wasn’t buried in that bottle.” Zeri exhaled in relief. Right again, Grandma. Guards are lazier at night. She pulled herself into the vent and started crawling, eventually coming to a large grate in the floor. Below was a curious room where wide metal pipes lined every wall. The exit was closed off by the double doors she saw earlier. In the middle, a group of people assembled parts as several thugs with hextech-powered spears watched on like jail guards. Every time something reached the end of the assembly line, a thug tested it. And every time, there’d be a flash of blue light followed by nothing. The guard captain smashed these apparent failures and demanded the people start over. “And they said you were the smart ones,” he said, spitting on the floor. Zeri could tell these people were clearly being held against their will. Parents and spouses and friends, all suffering. “Argh!” Without thinking, Zeri banged a fist charged with frustration and electricity against the grate, which rattled from the impact. Zeri scrambled to secure it, but as the heavy grate fell from its fixture, so did she. With a loud clang, she landed in the middle of the factory floor. The room gasped and recoiled in surprise. “Is it him?” asked a thug, shaking off the shock. “No,” snarled the captain. “Her face doesn’t have the painted hourglass.” Zeri rushed to her feet. “Dunno who you’re expecting, but you can’t keep these people here like this.” The captain scowled. “Says who?” “Me.” Zeri whipped out her gun, her right hand clutching its rusted crimson grip. Her mom had designed it without trigger or magazine, needing only her daughter’s innate electricity, which now swelled with anger. Static buzzed from Zeri’s hand into the gun’s conductive barrel. She took aim. “Ultrashock laser!” A thunderous beam struck the double doors behind the thugs, blasting the rusted metal apart. “Run!” Zeri cried. “I’ll take care of the guards!” The hostages scattered, guards in pursuit. A woman grabbed Zeri’s arm. “Have you seen my son? He wasn’t taken with us!” “Timik’s fine. He’s—” “Timik? No, that’s not—” More thugs swarmed close. Zeri yanked her gun to face them and fired, pushing them back and creating space for the worried woman to flee. “We gotta go,” a man warned, pulling the woman away. Zeri unleashed more electric bullets as coverfire. “When word of this gets out to your boss,” she yelled, “you’re gonna wish you’d killed me here.” The frustrated guards turned their attention away from the fleeing hostages and toward Zeri. Good. Come to me. As they approached, she vaulted onto one of the wide interlocking pipes attached to the walls. It was made of brass and copper—natural conductors. Zeri’s feet crackled with electricity. Fueled by her sparks, she skated along the web of pipes, unloading flurries of bullets at three of the onrushing guards. Their bodies twitched and flailed before falling over. Deftly, Zeri switched directions, dropping the next few who were climbing the side railings to surprise her from behind. Only a handful of her attackers were left. She could head home soon. Her family was probably worried sick... A blast struck the pipe beneath Zeri, forcing her off balance. She crashed to the ground. “Got you now,” the captain said, holding what looked like a hextech cannon, smoke billowing off its muzzle. His remaining troops rallied, spears ready. Zeri struggled to her feet, head spinning, knees scraped and bleeding, electric currents flickering across her injured body. She lifted her gun to fire. It fizzled. The captain smirked. Damn! Must’ve broken in the fall. Her enemies closed in. “Screw it!” Zeri chucked her gun aside and tore off her jacket. Freed of the Sparkpack, she felt her body surge with voltage. Leaping into the air, she punched her left fist up toward the ceiling. “LIGHTNING CRASH!” Bioelectric waves shot from her fist, then her chest, and then her entire body, ripping the space asunder. Like a lightning storm, the waves arced off conductive metals, crackling violently as they drowned the room with Zeri’s raw power. Bodies jolted before dropping in droves. Zeri fell to her knees, her knuckles propping her up. Blinking sweat from her eyes, she felt searing pain from her wounds everywhere at once. “That better have worked.” “You little shit.” The captain's voice cut through the room. Zeri saw him stumble to his feet, bleeding from his nose and ears. “Why?” Zeri roared. “Why hurt innocent people?” The man scoffed, kicking the limp bodies around him in search of his weapon. “No one’s innocent in the baroness’s eyes.” A hum filled the air as the captain lifted his cannon toward Zeri. With what little force she could muster, Zeri tumbled to the side and slipped behind a large fallen pipe. The blast flung her and her cover into a wall. Zeri’s vision turned black. When her eyes opened, the captain was gone. Staggering under moonlight, Zeri headed home through nearly empty streets. She was relieved the hostages were safe, but still gritted her teeth. The chem-barons—they always had more. More resources, more power. Their strength was the system they created with everyone under their reign, all contributing to a Zaun they controlled. Maybe the captain was right—no one’s innocent. And everyone’s a victim. A flash of blue light erupted behind her, stopping Zeri in her tracks. “Hey, nice work.” She turned to see a teenager with a painted face and a glowing bat in hand. Unsure if she’d been tailed, Zeri tried to ready herself once more, but struggled to stand up straight in the face of the stranger. “Relax,” the young man said. “Timik told me about you.” “And who are you?” Zeri asked. “Name’s Ekko. Those goons from the warehouse were looking for me before you showed up. But man, you wrecked ‘em.” Zeri sighed. If he’s against the barons, he’s alright. “Look,” Ekko continued, “I know you’ve got questions—so do I. And I’ve gotta ask... why help folks you don’t know?” Zeri shrugged. “I stand up for my community.” Ekko smiled. “Then we should talk. Zaun needs people like you… and I oughta thank you for saving my parents tonight, too.” Zeri smiled back. “Anytime.”

Marksman

You, there! Yes, you! You look like a fine Demacian with working ears—one who might stay a stretch and heed the warnings of an old man who has seen the impossible. I’m on a quest, you see, at the bidding of the Wandering Caretaker, and you can help! I must retrieve... Well, it’s best that I explain. Come, now. Don’t shy away. Hear my tale, which is entirely true... I was first awoken by the clanging of bells—my mother’s two-hundred-year-old wind chimes—screaming outside, beyond my window. She thought she was quite clever, my mother, convincing me their summer song would signal the coming of warm and sunny days. Even at my age, I can only count a handful of pleasant seasons in Valar’s Hollow. Ha! An adolescence marred by the endless chopping of firewood can attest to that. The night I speak of was no exception—a winter storm was raging. I jumped to my feet when my door burst open and the rush of freezing wind filled my room. After scrambling to sheathe my trembling body in the thickest furs I owned, I made my way to the door, ready to slam it shut. But I hesitated. My mother’s chimes were still screaming in the wind. Though they mostly stirred memories of my harsh and laborious upbringing, they provided me with a sense of connection to her. I should not risk losing them, or worse—suffer no sleep from their incessant wailing. Don’t get me wrong, the chimes did have a certain appeal. Stories of how they came into my family’s possession told of an incredible destiny and a celebrated past. They were forged from ingot—war metals—some of the rarest in the Freljord. Whenever a battle had been lost and won, the Collectors, my poor but resourceful ancestors, entered the battlefield and retrieved what had been left to rust in the blood-stained snow. “How much ingot was out there, mother?” I asked once, as she gushed about ancient times. “Centuries of it,” she replied. “What did the Collectors do with it all?” “Sold it to the Winter’s Claw,” she said, shrugging, “who made more weapons for wars to come.” Then she paused for a moment and smiled as her chimes began to sing. “But there was always a little we kept for ourselves—to make instruments of life, not death.” Indeed, those precious chimes were instruments that brought wonderful music to our land. “Good fortune in bad times,” she told me. I prayed for that fortune when she fell ill, but it never came. The Wandering Caretaker was more concerned with his own wonderful music than helping the infirm, and I was left with her infernal chimes to remember them both by. I digress. Taking a deep breath, I pushed my way outside, but I was halted by an impossible sight: Floating in front of me, unaffected by the storm, was a small, translucent creature. Without wings or arms to hold it in place, it hung there, as if some eldritch magic had nailed it to a block of air. Two glowing white eyes like torches were affixed to its orbish head, and three twinkling stars in its belly began to churn and flicker. To my surprise, one of my mother’s chimes responded, and, like a child’s arm, it reached back to the shimmering creature, adopting its starry glow. But then... The chime cracked! And I heard its summer song deform. A fissure that was made etched its way up the chime’s side, and specks of gold light were drawn out from within it, as if certain materials that composed it were being stolen away. Those were not lights the thing was stealing; they were my mother’s tears, falling, as this beloved yet irritating heirloom was quickly being destroyed. I could not—I would not let that happen! So I leapt into the blizzard and took hold of the chime. At its touch, I heard the blast of a horn in the distance. Why, I was not sure. I pulled back with all my might, but the creature’s magic was too strong to overcome. And worse, I felt my entire body jerk skyward, and my feet left the ground. Soon I was hurtling into the heavens, towed into the clouds by the befouled moppet! CRACK! Another break scribbled its way down the chime. Then I saw something taking shape in the space between us—a shard, a piece of a whole, was materializing. Believing it would be the only thing to save me, I grasped it. As I reached, I glanced back to the wicked creature, only to realize that it had disappeared. In its place, hovering before me in all his mystic glory, was the Wandering Caretaker. It had taken an entire lifetime of prayer for him to appear, and, as my mother had promised, the chimes brought him forth. The Bard seemed to stare back at me... into me... curious of my being there. But it was too late to explain. There suddenly came a rush of wind and a wave of heat. I felt my arm stretch the length of a vine. My body followed, spinning and twisting, as I was being taken somewhere—an otherworldly place! As to where I ended up, my mother’s old dulcimer here will aid me as I sing... The Bells ’Twas sound that harkened visions of a place. Divine, Bard’s music just beyond the veil. A firmament revealed to me in space, In string and drum and reed celestial. Bard opened up the cosmos wide to me! I felt Beginning, End, and In Between. Where waves had never stirred that lampless sea, We heard Sol first prepare the stars to ring. No human witness had there ever been, But I alone did hear the act take form. That symphony changed me from within, My mortal body suddenly transformed. A spirit now, a meep celestial, Ascended like the Aspects in this dream, I sang with Bard throughout the sonic realm, And tended to his will a century. The Bells! The Bells! The Bells! But then I heard a bell begin to bend And felt a darkness silencing the song. I told my brethren and my master then And travel all we did to right the wrong. And we were brought before a gaping maw, An empty soundless pit devoid of light. My ears beheld such darkness from beyond; It filled my soul with terror and with fright. I fear the hordes inside sang me a song, One that has no start; it only ends. For when I peered into that deep unknown, I felt my own music crook and bend. So I forced my ears above to the divine, Turned back to what is good and what is right. But then I caught the rip—the Void’s divide, And soon beheld destruction of the light. The Bells! The Bells! The Bells! In billions were the fragments, were these chimes, Showered ’cross the land, when darkness split The bell that tolls the rhythm and the time, Runeterra’s hymn, whose song may be forfeit. To close the door and bring the notes in line The Bard had sent us scouring the world. With every shard, a stitch to recombine What the Void had torn when it emerged. The Bells! The Bells! The Bells! Soon I awoke in bed, a meep no more, And back in Valar’s Hollow did I dwell, I tore my mother’s chimes from off that door, And offered Bard more shards to fix the bell. Since, my charge is to collect more chimes Through wind and rain and sun and land and sea. I pray that every treasure will rewind That music that the Void did play to me. The Bells! The Bells! The Bells! Dear Demacian, I have come a long way and farther still to warn everyone of the darkness that threatens to silence the music of this world. Runeterra is a bell—a world bell—that has been corroded by evil. Its fragments, its chimes, must be found to make it whole again. And our first step is to place all precious metals in your possession in my basket. I will take them, inspect them, sing to them Bard’s divine music to remove any chimes of the world bell within them. Any chimeless pieces I will, of course, return to you. No! Wait! Don’t walk away—what I tell you is true! Please, listen. There isn’t much time. The end of our world is nigh... And only Bard and his meeps can save us.

Support

'Would you like to hear a bedtime story?'' ''Grandma, I'm too old for that.'' ''You're never too old to enjoy a good story.'' The girl reluctantly crawled into bed and waited, knowing she wouldn’t win this battle. A bitter wind howled outside, whipping the falling snow into devil whirls. ''What kind though? A tale of the Ice Witch, perhaps?'' asked her grandmother. ''No, not her.'' ''What about a story of Braum?'' The girl nodded and the old woman smiled. ''Ah, there are so many, which to choose…? My grandmother used to tell me of the time Braum protected our village from a great dragon! Or once, this was long ago, mind, he raced down a river of lava! Or-'' She paused and shook her head. “No, none of them. Wait, have I ever told you how Braum got his shield?'' The girl shook her head. The hearth fire snapped, its warmth holding off the night’s chill. ''Well, in the mountains above our village lived a man named Braum. He mostly kept to his farm, tending his sheep and goats, but he was the kindest man anyone had ever met, and he always had a smile on his face and a laugh on his lips. ''Now, one day, something terrible happened. A young troll boy around your age was climbing the mountain and happened upon a massive stone door with a shard of True Ice at its center. When he opened the door, he couldn't believe his eyes! Beyond was a vault filled with gold and jewels. Every kind of treasure you could imagine! ''What he didn't know was that the vault was a trap. The Ice Witch had cursed it, and as the troll boy entered, the magical door clanged shut behind him! It locked him inside! Try as he might, he couldn't escape. ''A passing shepherd heard the boy’s cries. The entire village rushed to help, but even the strongest warriors couldn't open the door. The boy's parents were beside themselves. His mother's wails of grief echoed around the mountain. It seemed hopeless. ''And then they heard a distant laugh.'' ''It was Braum, wasn't it?'' asked the girl. ''Aren't you clever? Braum had heard their cries and came striding down the mountain. The villagers told him of the troll boy and the curse. Braum smiled and nodded. He turned to the vault and faced the door. He pushed it. Pulled it. Punched it. Kicked it. Even tried to rip it from its hinges, but the door wasn’t for budging.'' ''But he's the strongest man ever!'' cried the girl. ''It was perplexing,'' agreed her grandmother. ''For many days and nights, Braum sat on a boulder, trying to think of a solution. After all, a child's life was at stake. ''Then, as the sun rose on the fifth day, his eyes widened, and a broad grin lit up his face. ‘If I can't go through the door,' he said, ‘then I'll just have to go through-’...'' The girl thought for a moment. Her eyes went wide as she exclaimed, ''The mountain!'' ''The mountain indeed. Braum headed to the summit and began punching his way straight down, pummeling his way through the stone, fist after fist. Rocks flew in his wake, until he had vanished deep into the mountain. ''As the villagers held their breath, the rock around the door crumbled. And when the dust cleared, they saw Braum standing amidst the treasure, the weak but happy troll boy cradled in his arms.'' ''I knew he could do it!'' ''But before they could celebrate, everything began to rumble and shake. Braum's tunnel had weakened the mountain, and now it was caving in! Thinking quickly, Braum grabbed the enchanted door and held it above him like a shield, protecting the villagers as the mountain collapsed around them. When it was over, Braum was amazed. There wasn't a single scratch on the door! Braum knew it was something very special. And from that moment on, the magical shield never left Braum's side.'' The girl sat upright, struggling to conceal her excitement. ''Grandma,'' she said, ''can you tell me another story?'' The girl’s grandmother smiled, kissed her forehead and blew out the candle. ''Tomorrow,” she said. “You need to sleep, and there are many more stories to tell.''

Support

For most people, a hundred years is a very long time. In a century, one could explore the entire world, meet thousands of people, or complete countless works of art. Now, anyone could easily assume that standing in one spot for over a century would be a colossal waste. But during that time, Ivern Bramblefoot accomplished more than any could dream.For instance, he settled a longstanding dispute between a colony of lichen and their host boulder, helped each generation of winter squirrels find their forgotten autumn acorns, and coaxed a lone wolf to rejoin her pack, despite the fact that they once called her howling “shrill.”Ivern’s toes burrowed deep beneath the topsoil, curled between vigilant tubers and oblivious earthworms to mingle with the roots of older trees, and the forest around him bloomed. There was much more, of course, but those examples alone are proof enough of a good century’s work.Things were going swimmingly until the sassafras started murmuring about dark doings on the edge of the forest.Hunters! they cried through their roots, alarming half the forest.Ivern knew sassafras to be anxious trees, raising their leaves in panic over the slightest stray saltsnail, and after all, hunting wasn’t so bad, for nothing is wasted or senseless in the cycle of life. But the sassafras had worried the robins, who told the butterflies, and if butterflies knew a secret, so did the entire forest.So Ivern stood up, and after briefly soothing the clipper ant colony whose ancestral home he had just displaced, he stalked away, shaking off layers of crusty bark. With each flower-blooming step through the forest, the alarm grew more frantic.Three of them, nattered the squirrels.Eyes like twin blood moons, gibbered the scuttle-crabs as they hid in the river.More bloodthirsty than elmarks, proclaimed the elmarks.The peregrines swore the hunters were after their eggs. The ivory-wreathed chrysanthemum feared for her illustrious petals—that worried Daisy, who loved her flowers dearly. Ivern calmed each of them, and urged them to hide until trouble passed. He pretended not to notice Daisy following him, since she thought herself to be quite sneaky.He saw an eight-tusked shagyak dead in the grass. Three arrows were thrust deep into the thick hump of muscle at the base of its neck. As a sappy tear escaped Ivern’s eye, a squirrel he’d named Mikkus scampered up the Green Father’s chest and lapped it off his cheek in solace.“Hunters take meat for food,” Ivern said aloud. “Hunters whittle bone into toys and tools. Hunters sew pelts into garments and tan skin into boots.”The corpse was missing its eight shimmering, pearlescent tusks. Ivern touched the ground, and a circle of daisies bloomed around the dead shagyak. He saw a baby stonescale viper slithering away. Stone-scale vipers are wise beyond their years.“Ssssssssafe?” the snake hiss-asked.Ivern knew snakes were embarrassed by their lisps and for a long time had avoided words with sibilant sounds. He’d challenged them to embrace the words they feared the most, but they took the lesson to heart and now spoke exclusively in words beginning “s.”Snakes; such overachievers.“It’s safe now, little one.” Poor thing must’ve witnessed the whole ordeal. “Coil up here and watch the shagyak for me,” Ivern urged the baby viper. “I’ll return once I get to the bottom of this.”The shagyak horns clacked relentlessly with each step Risbell took, so much so that she had to stop and repack the tusks lest the noise scare off their next kill. Upriver, those horns would earn them a fortune. City people paid well for half-cocked backwater remedies these days.Niko, the square-jawed hunter with one eye, uncovered another set of shagyak hoof prints. She beckoned behind her to Eddo, the rich city man with the whalebone bow, and grinned. Eddo’s toothy smile and malicious eyes made Risbell, the youngest of the crew, shiver.Up ahead, in a glade, another eight-tusked shagyak grazed on its very favorite variety of grass. Each of the three hunters approached slowly and quietly, rustling nary a dead leaf.In rehearsed synchronicity, all three readied their bows and took careful aim. The shagyak’s head was still bent low, as it dined on the soft mulderberries and scullygrass, obscuring the knot of muscles at the base of its neck. When pierced, the hump would keep the blood flowing while the hunters hewed off horns. It was very important that the shagyak still be alive when the tusks were harvested to increase their potency, Eddo said.Sweat beaded down her neck as she waited for the shagyak to raise its head. Just as the beast’s head swung up, the glade of low scullygrass bloomed impossibly fast, from ankle height to over their heads in a moment. The stalks stretched toward the sun, flowers blooming instantly in an array of radiant petals. A flowering wall of scullygrass completely obscured the shagyak.Eddo dropped his bow. Niko’s one good eye looked as if it was going to bulge from its socket. Risbell’s arrow errantly soared through the air. She didn’t command her fingers to release the bowstring. She backed up against the nearest tree, terrified.“I told you these woods were cursed,” Risbell whispered. “We should leave now.”“I’ve dealt with sorcery before,” Niko said. “I will do this the old way.”She placed her arrow back in her quiver and pulled a long, mean-looking dagger from her belt.Eddo did the same. They both beckoned for Risbell to stay put with the tusks as they stealthily disappeared into the wall of grass. She waited and held her breath, but couldn’t even hear their footfalls. One day she hoped to be as silently deadly as her companions. Still, she couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that the wall of vegetation was a warning to be heeded. Stories her grandmother told her, of the strange creatures of magic that wandered this world, came back to her. Just children’s tales, she reminded herself.An eerie and unfamiliar sound echoed through the glade. It wasn’t the shrieking of a shagyak, but the heavy sound of rocks smashing into ground with loud, splintery thuds. Whatever caused the sound, it was enough to make Eddo and Niko race out of the brush, running at full tilt. Their skin was pale and their eyes were wide. Then she saw what had caused her companions to flee.A flower, a simple ivory-wreathed chrysanthemum, was dancing on top of the grass. It was a rather curious sight.Then Risbell realized it was getting closer. The grass parted, and there stood a behemoth of stone and moss. A living incarnation of granite, massively strong, and moving with rhythm. In the moment it took Risbell to reconcile what was happening, she heard a calm voice calling to the creature.“Daisy! Be careful. And... gentle!”Risbell grabbed the satchel of tusks and ran after Niko and Eddo, trying to remember the route that led back to their camp. At each tree, a new wall of grass sprouted up. Something stalked within the grass, rustling through the leaves as it walked, giggling as Risbell spun in circles trying to find her way out. She was alone in a strange forest, and behind every infernal tree lurked more grass, springing up nearly instantly.Risbell realized she was being corralled the same way grandmother used to herd sheep. Knowing full well that she was walking into a trap, Risbell squared her shoulders and followed the grass.Ivern watched as the young hunter stepped out of the grassy maze and approached the shagyak’s body. The poor thing looked positively terrified. She clearly had never seen anything or anyone quite like himself before. He tried to be gentle, but humans tended to be so individual in their reactions. Unlike, say, the caterwauling of smug mewlarks.“Please. Don’t be frightened. Unless that is your natural state. In which case, fright away. I’ll wait. I really don’t mind.”It wasn’t Ivern’s intention to frighten anyone. But no one can account for another being’s experience.“Get on with it,” Risbell said. Her voice quavered and her eyes flinched. “I’ve trespassed, I know. I’m at your mercy. Just let it be quick.”“Be quick?” Ivern shrugged. “Certainly. It didn’t cross my mind that you might have better places to be. Very well then.”The girl closed her eyes and lifted her chin, exposing her throat. She reached her hand back toward the scabbard at her belt and wrapped her knuckles around the dagger. If he came for her, there would be a surprise.“But I only want to know why,” Ivern said in a voice filled with merriment. He gestured with his branchlike fingers to the shagyak’s body. His arm stretched longer than it should, to the dead beast’s back, where he lovingly stroked its blood-mottled fur.Risbell drew her dagger and then felt a sharp pain in her ankle. A cold sensation spread up her leg. When she looked down, she saw the culprit: a stone-scaled viper, the most venomous asp in all the Aulderwood.Out of anger and instinct, she lashed out at the snake.“No!” Ivern shouted.Viney roots sprouted up from the soil and caught her arm, preventing her strike. They wrapped around her wrists and ankles and knees. She dropped her dagger in her struggles to break free.“I’m going to die!” she cried. The venom’s coldness spread up past her knees.The serpent slithered to Ivern’s feet and coiled up the outside of his leg, climbing up and around his body until it vanished into his armpit. It emerged from the back of his head, curling around one of the branches, and licked its forked tongue at Ivern’s ear.“Sssssssorry,” hissed the snake to Ivern. “Ssssstartled.”“Please,” Risbell said. “Help me.”Ivern thought for a second.“Ah yes!” His honey eyes twinkled with an idea. “There’s one thing that loves shagyaks. Especially dead ones.“And please, forgive Syrus; he’s only recently hatched and doesn’t know how to control his venom. Gave you a full dose, I’m afraid. He’s asked me to tell you that he’s awfully sorry. You startled him and he reacted purely on instinct,” Ivern said. “Now, watch.”The tree man knelt before the shagyak’s body, closed his eyes, and hummed a deep, earthy tune. His hands were in the soil, fingers splayed out. Twinkling green pops of light cascaded from his rune-carved head, down his arms, and into the dirt. Odd purple mushrooms popped up from the carcass. They were tiny at first; then their stalks rose as rot overtook the shagyak’s corpse. Soon there was only fur, bones, and an army of violet mushrooms.“Ah, stingsalve fungus,” Ivern sighed. He plucked one delicately. “Always so punctual.”The vines retracted from Risbell’s body. She collapsed in a heap. Her hands immediately shot to her heart. The icy pangs of stone-scale venom had reached her chest.“Eat this,” Ivern said, offered the purple mushroom to the dying woman. “It might not taste like salamander dew or sunshine, but it’s not as bad as lippertick apples.”Risbell had no idea what the strange treeman was on about, but her options were severely limited at that moment. A voice came back to her from the past. Her grandmother’s. Trust in nature; the Green Father never leads you astray.She grabbed the mushroom from Ivern’s hand. It tasted like bitter tea and mulch; a disappointing final meal. Then the icy grip around her heart thawed and retreated. Within minutes, her legs worked again.As she recovered, Ivern made her a tincture of odd leaves, tree sap, and water from a spring he’d discovered with his toes. He served it to her in a bird’s nest cup that a peregrine dropped into his hand.“You’re him, aren’t you? The Green Father.”Ivern shrugged as if he didn’t know. “You know what we could do here?” he said, turning his attention to the shagyak bones. “Moss always loves to pretty up the place.”As soon as he said it, a thick carpet of moss crept over the bones. With the mushrooms, what once had been a grisly sight was now beautiful.“Sheldon would love how beautiful his bones turned out to be. Badgers will use his ribs as shelter from the autumn storms. Nothing is ever wasted,” Ivern said, turning his attention to Risbell. “It seemed so senseless, but it makes perfect sense. If it wasn’t killed, you wouldn’t have lived.”“We wanted its tusks,” Risbell said. She fixed her eyes on her boots in shame. “Rich people clamor for them. Willing to pay a lot.”“I remember money. It’s rarely a good motivator.”“I knew we shouldn’t have killed it. My grandmother used to tell me that if one must kill, one must use all parts to honor the beast.”“I would love to meet your grandmother,” Ivern said.“She is gone to the ground.”“Returning to the soil that which the soil gave is noble.”“I’m sorry,” Risbell said after a long moment of silence.“All life is precious.” The gentleness and warmth and forgiveness in Ivern’s voice moved Risbell to tears. Ivern patted her on the head. “I probably couldn’t have handled the whole thing better myself. I’ve so much to remember about humans, and so much too I had forgotten to ever learn.”Ivern helped Risbell to her feet.“I must be off now. I promised the tadpoles of Southern Pond that I would monitor their elections for the king of lily pads. It’s quite the contentious race.”A while later, Risbell emerged from the tree line near the river. After gulping down some water, she dug a hole on the banks and tenderly placed the shagyak tusks inside. She scooped up a handful of dirt and recited the prayers of honor her grandmother had taught her. She repeated this ritual until the horns were buried. Then she bowed her head in reverence and left the site marked as a grave.From the depths of the Aulderwood, Ivern smiled at the gesture. The shagyak herd would be proud.

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They think Zaun is where the losers live. They won’t admit it, of course – they’ll smile through their teeth and pat us on the back and tell us that Piltover would be nowhere without Zaun. Our hard workers! Our bustling trade! Our chemtech that everyone in Piltover pretends they don’t buy, except they constantly do! Zaun is a vital part of Piltover’s culture, they’ll say. All lies. Obviously. They think Zaun is where the idiots go. People too stupid to make it in Piltover’s golden towers. People like me. I spent months dealing shimmer so I could afford to apply for Clan Holloran’s apprenticeship. I studied every crusty, dog-eared book I could find on gearwork machinery. I built a prototype gearbrace for people with broken or arthritic wrists that increased their mobility. I did everything I could have done to earn an apprenticeship in Piltover. I even made it to the final stage of the vetting process: a face-to-face meeting with Boswell Holloran himself. They said it was a formality. Just a way to welcome me to the family. He entered the room, looked down at my Gray-stained clothes, and laughed a strangled, joyless laugh. He said, “Sorry, my boy – we don’t take sump-rats here.” He never even sat down. So now I’m back here. In Zaun. One more idiot. The Gray rolls through the streets, welcoming me back. Most days, it’s thin enough that you can breathe deep without coughing up something wet. Today, though, is what we call a Grayout. You choke with every breath. Your chest feels tight. Can’t see much past your fingertips. I want to run, but I know there’s nowhere to run to. The Gray feels like it’s closing in on me, crushing me, smothering me. These are the times I pray to Janna. Not everyone in Zaun believes she’s real, but my mother always had faith. She told me a bluebird hovered outside her window on the day of my birth, and she knew – she knew – it was Janna telling her I was going to be fine. She was wrong, of course. I wasn’t fine, in the end. Couple of years ago, she – my mother – died while sump-scrapping, and I had to raise myself with the few gears she left me. Then, the usual: couldn’t make friends. Got beaten up a lot. Boy I loved didn’t love me back. Tried to study, tried to think my way up to Piltover. Couldn’t. Figured Janna had forgotten about me. But I still keep the pendant my mother gave me: a wooden engraving depicting the bluebird she saw. Just in case of moments like these. So I sit on the wet ground because I don’t care enough to find a bench, and I take out the bluebird pendant I always keep tucked in my shirt, and I talk to Janna. Not out loud, of course – don’t need people thinking I’m some chem-burnt freak – but still, I talk to her. I don’t ask her for anything. I just tell her about my day, and the day before that, and how scared I am that I’ll never become anything worthwhile and that I’ll die down here knee-deep in the Sump with nothing to show for it just like my mother, and that sometimes I just want to run away somewhere I can breathe and stop being so frightened and not feel like crying all the time and how I hate myself for feeling like I want to cry because I have it so much easier than some other people, and how sometimes I think about throwing myself into the chem pools of the Sump, just throwing myself in with my mother where I’d let myself sink to the bottom and my lungs would fill with fluid because then it’d be over, at least. I tell Janna I hope she’s okay. I hope she’s happy, wherever she is. That’s when I feel the breeze caress my cheek. Just a light flutter, but it’s there. Soon, I can feel it blow hair across my face. The wind whistles loud and fast, and soon it’s whipping my coat in the air and I feel as though I’m at the center of a maelstrom. The Gray swirls before me, pushed up by a breeze that seems to flow from everywhere at once. The fog slowly dissipates, and I can see other passersby on the Entresol level watching it float away. The wind stops. The Gray clears. I can breathe. Not just small, cautious gasps, but deep breaths that fill my lungs with cold, fresh air. No longer veiled in Gray, the sun shines past the towers of Piltover into Zaun itself. I can see the Piltovans above, peering down at us. Without the Gray clouding their view, they can see us from their lofty bridges and balconies. I don’t think they like it very much. Nobody wants to be reminded they live above a slum; I see a few scowls. That’s when I see him again: Boswell Holloran. Holding a sweetcake in his hand, looking down at me again. An expression of disgust on his face, just like before. I’m so busy staring at his contemptuous face that I don’t notice the presence behind me until her hand is on my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says, and I know without turning who it is. She squeezes my shoulder, then kneels and crosses her arms in front of my chest, pulling me into a hug. “It’s going to be okay,” she says. Strands of her hair fall onto my shoulders. She smells like the air after a long rain. “It might not be okay now. You might not be okay for a while. And that’s fine. But someday, without knowing exactly when or why or how it happened, you’ll feel happy,” she says. My face is warm and wet and I don’t know when I started crying but it’s a relief, like the clouds are clearing, and I hold her arms and she holds me, just telling me over and over that it’s okay, that she’s here, that things will be better. I don’t know how long she holds me, but soon I see everyone on Zaun’s Entresol and the balconies of Piltover above are staring. Before I can say anything, she says, “Don’t think about them. Just take care of yourself. Will you do that for me?” I try to speak, but instead I just nod. “Thank you,” she says, and she kisses my wet cheek and gives me one last, quick squeeze. She rises and glides past me. For the first time, I see her in her entirety – a tall, ethereal figure that I would’ve assumed was from my imagination if she hadn’t just touched me. I notice her long, pointed ears. Feet that don’t touch the ground. Hair flowing in the wind, even right now when there isn’t any. Eyes so blue I feel a little cold just looking at her. But then she smiles, winks, and says, “You’ll want to watch this next part.” There’s a massive gust of wind, so fast and sharp I have to cover my eyes. When I open them again she’s gone, but the wind is still blowing. It blows up toward Piltover and its gawking citizens. It whistles as it picks up speed and strength, and the Pilties run for cover but it’s too late, the breeze hits them full force, sending their frocks sailing and mussing their hair. Boswell Holloran shrieks in terror as the wind launches him off the balcony. It seems as if he’s about to plummet toward certain death, but another gust of wind shoots up toward him, and his descent slows significantly, as if the wind is guiding him down. You wouldn’t know it to look at him, though. Even though he’s falling with all the velocity of a tumbling leaf, He screams the entire way down. Very high pitched. Very undignified. His clothes flap upward, smacking him in the face as he descends, until he’s hovering a few inches above a puddle. “I –,” he begins, before the wind disappears altogether and he plops ass-first into the puddle, ruining what I assume was a very expensive ensemble. He yelps in a mixture of surprise, pain, and irritation, splashing around like an angry child. He tries to get to his feet, only to slip and fall back down all over again. If I’m being completely honest, he looks like an idiot. And I can’t stop laughing.

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Milio's story began generations ago with his grandmother, Lupé, and her twin sister, Luné—two elemental masters who wove their respective earth and fire axioms together to overcome the Vidalion’s trials and join the Yun Tal. But after Luné was caught plotting against the Yun Tal, both sisters were convicted of her crime and punished as twins. Lupé was banished to the farthest reaches of Ixtal and Luné all but vanished, taking with her the last of Lupé's trust. By the time Milio was born, his family had done all they could to make the best of their new lives. He knew only love and laughter, and to him, life in the village was paradise—what more could they ever need? When Milio was old enough, Lupé tried to teach her grandson the axiomata. Where the rest of her family had failed her, Milio showed promise and took to the elements naturally, but struggled to grasp the rules and rigidity of the discipline. Disappointed, Lupé gave up hope, abandoning Milio's teachings. Milio, however, continued to learn on his own. Away from the guidance of his grandmother, he abandoned the restrictions she had tried to impose on him. Studying nature itself, he intuited his own set of rules and eventually mastered fire—the one axiom his grandmother wouldn't teach him. But something bothered Milio about fire. Did it have to be so destructive, especially when he saw the potential for it to do more? The answer revealed itself one night while Milio was chasing the glow of summer fireflies. They led him to one of the village’s hunters who was injured and unable to move. Milio tried to keep her stable with his fire axiom, but it wasn't enough. Knowing the village healer was too far, he tried desperately to adapt the axiom into a force that could heal. As he placed his hands on the hunter's stomach to support her wound, he felt a flicker of warmth.. It was so familiar and soothing, like he was touching her soul. Her inner flame. Then Milio began to feel that same flame within himself. He could feel it within the trees, within the leaves—as if each part of the jungle was coming to life like a cozy bonfire. Focusing all of his energy into that feeling, he used what nature had taught him to manifest that fire. What emerged was a creature—small and timid with wide, friendly eyes. Milio placed it on the hunter's wound and felt the creature—his inner flame—heal her from the inside out. That night, he’d discovered an entirely new axiom, which he affectionately named “soothing fire.” Milio ran home to show his family what he'd done. Before their eyes, he manifested another soothing flame that danced happily in the palm of his hand—his "fuemigo"—and his family celebrated. Grandmother Lupé, however, was unsettled by this achievement. Seeing Milio’s mastery of the axiomata at such a young age, Lupé knew that her grandson had done what the rest of her family failed to do. With his abilities, he could finally end their exile and restore them to their rightful place among Ixtal's ruling caste. However, she was troubled by his fascination with fire and how his burgeoning skills went against the traditional teachings of the axiomata. Despite this, Lupé threw everything into her last chance at redemption. Milio became her sole focus as she nurtured and shaped his abilities, preparing him to leave home, travel to Ixaocan, and finally free her from the burden of her sister's failures. Milio felt this weight upon his shoulders, and the thought of leaving home on his own terrified him. But because Milio loved his family more than anything, he would find the courage if it meant ensuring their happiness. In preparation for the journey, he and his grandmother fashioned a special backpack that Milio called his "furnasita," inside of which he could keep his ever-burning fuemigo. Then, with a heavy heart and a wide smile, Milio—at only twelve years old—left his village behind, outfitted with only his trusty furnasita and some new clothes made by his family. He traveled the entirety of Ixtal, forging his way through the jungle, camping underneath the stars, and making friends along the way, all while sending frequent letters home that detailed his exciting adventures. After a long journey, Milio finally made it to Ixaocan, where he's since begun his training to challenge the Vidalion. "The boy with the soothing flames" has caught the eye of more than a few—including Luné, currently imprisoned beneath the city and biding her time. Even Milio notices the whispering that accompanies him around the city, but his focus is on joining the Yun Tal and making his family proud.

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Mazier is sprawled on the rotten planks, waves lapping at stone underneath. Her slowing heartbeat pumps blood into the seawater. She stares, unblinking, at the shanty-dwellings above, and the stars beyond. Pyke studies her face once more. Mazier’s dead eyes stab at his mind. A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains. Long hair in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Blue eyes. Mazier’s blue eyes, wide in disbelief. Then, teeth. Not Mazier’s pearly whites. Gunky, sword-sized teeth. Criss-crossed the boat. Losing light. Closing. In the jaull’s mouth. Lifeline slack. Cut. The tongue was too slick. Eyes stung with sweat. Fingers finding no purchase. Get to open water. Swim, swim... The jaull’s teeth clamped shut. Then pain. Then darkness. Ship was gone. So were the eyes. Mazier’s eyes. An able-bodied sailor. Aye. She was there. She cut my line. Pyke nudges the body with his boot, gazing downward all the while. He nudges her until she reaches the edge of the dock. One more kick, and Mazier is floating. The sharks are quick to feast. Circling. Snapping. The ocean never wastes time. Gulls shriek, their warbled cries caught on the wind, as Pyke finds Mazier, abled-bodied sailor, on the list. Red ink strikes her name from the parchment. The last name on the Terror’s crew manifest. That’s it. No more names, just a lot of red crosses. Where did I get all that ink...? A feeling gnaws at Pyke. Restless, unsettled, unsatisfied. The churning lurch of bile in his belly. He can’t be done. There were too many of them there, on the decks. Maybe he got the wrong manifest. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. They let me die. So many hands. So many times. Another sound. Not gulls. Not waves. Not teeth closing. Not the voice in the back of his mind screaming out “You’re not done!” over and over and over. Not the music he remembers from the swimming city, all those years ago. It’s a new sound. A real sound. A here-and-now sound. Pyke looks with his living eye, and sees wooden stairs sagging under heavy bootfalls. A thickset man, walking down toward the moored, bobbing vessels. He stops when he sees all the blood. His hand disappears into his jacket, pulling a flintlock, keeping the barrel of the gun close to his chest. Ready to aim and fire. Like a bloody idiot. Pyke steps into the moonlight. The man looks like he’s seen a ghost. The skin around his mouth clams up tighter than a dock banker’s coin-purse. His eyes go wide and quivery, like jellyfish, like calm water catching a breeze. “Who’s that?” he yells. Come find out. The flintlock is aimed at Pyke’s head. Then comes the flash and the bang. The shot is true, but it splinters wood because Pyke is no longer where he was. He’s in the mist. He falls apart, into salt and drops of water—a fine man to a fine mist. He heard they call him a phantasm. They’re half right. The heavyset man reloads. Sweat beads his wrinkled brow. In those precious few seconds, Pyke is all around him, in the in between, somewhere behind the air itself, studying him. Those fearful eyes, crap-brown. His beard wild and white. Sagging jowls, crooked nose, cracked lips, the way his earlobes are cauliflowered from countless dirty tavern fights. Looks like a captain. The man reeks of sweet, prickly fear. Good old boot-quaking terror. Smells like a captain. Pyke needs to be sure. He takes form—he was always a big man, now with the baleful, glowing eye that the sea gifted him, he feels larger still. Tell me your name, he rumbles. The man didn’t expect anyone to appear behind him. Nobody expects that. Maybe they do in fantasies or nightmares or the stories they tell in bars. But in reality, everyone just craps their pants and falls flat on their face, and this heavyset captain is no rule-breaker on that count. He trips on his own stupid boots, and rolls down the stairs like a sack of tinned victuals. Pyke takes each step slowly. A Noxian galleon is moored at the dock. Trader ship, or traitor ship? Is there a difference? He guesses not. You got ‘til I get to the bottom of these steps to tell me what I want to know. The man wheezes, his wind knocked clear into someone else’s sails. Gasping. A fish on land. Chubby hands reaching out. I remember you... Step. White-knuckle grip on the deck rail... Step. The man tries to stand, but his knee bends the wrong way. Step. You were watching. Step. A wharf-rat scurries close. Dinner time soon. You were smiling. Sputter. Tears coming now. “P-please… I don’t know what you’re talking about...” Step. Name. Now. “Beke! Beke Nidd!” Pyke pauses to consult the manifest, one step from the bottom. All the red marks. All the crossed out names. There. Beke Nidd. Midshipman. Uncrossed. Clear as day. Must have had the paper folded wrong. Beke Nidd. Yeah, I remember you. You were there. “I’ve never seen you before! It’s my first night in Bilge—” People can’t lie with a hookman’s barber lodged in their cheek. They can’t beg or trade facts they don’t have. Fine tool, the barber-blade. Made of tempered sharkbone. Keener than steel. Sticks in real good, snagging on bone and flesh. Struggling only hooks it deeper, as Beke is learning. His eyes are really afraid now. Those eyes stab at Pyke’s mind. The memory rises like a tide, and he opens up to let the waters come crashing through, drowning out Beke’s gurgled pleas. A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains. Ragged beard in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Crap-brown eyes. Beke Nidd’s crap-brown eyes, wide in disbelief. Then, teeth.

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“Two paths lead to the monastery fortress from the villages below it,” Xayah begins. I follow her eyes and see a pair of golden stairways that stretch down from the mountain temple to the farmhouses below. Each wood-woven home probably has a whole family inside it. There, mortals are born, die, and—most importantly—create new songs. Probably with harps and drums. Maybe flutes? I should make a reed flute later. First, I need to fluff my cloak. Did I remember to clean my feathers? The town below must have an inn. A bottle of wine would be great right now. “Rakan…” Xayah says. Crap. She was telling me the plan. I focus back on her face, on her crooked smile. The sunset’s last rays reflect in her eyes. I love her eyelashes. I want to— “Repeat it back to me.” Something in the monastery. She was… Uh… “I rendezvous with you at…” I say, but I’ve already lost the thread. I pull at one of the feathers on my head, hoping to pluck the idea from it. A tiny shimmer of light glistens from her scrumptious bottom lip. Are her lips purple today? They were violet yesterday. “They will kill me if they catch me,” she says. The shock of the thought takes my breath. I feel my face twist into a snarl. “Who?!” I demand. “The guards,” she replies. ”It’s always guards.” “Then I’ll distract them! When?” She points to the sky. “Look for a green flash before the sun sets. Then draw the guards away from the western walls while I run along the ramparts to the cells.” “I put on a show the moment the sun sets,” I say. “Where do we meet?” “At the gate. I’ll throw a golden blade into the sky. But you have to be there in ten breaths,” Xayah says, plucking a feather from my cloak. “I will be at that gate the moment you throw the blade,” I say. Nothing in my life is more certain than that. “I know.” She nods, and begins telling me the safest path to take. She plans things, which is why I know she will be okay. Wow, the sky is gorgeous right now. That cloud is shaped like an eggplant. I saw a dog once… I do not like these steps. I do not like them. The gold leaf covering the stone is almost the same color as my feathers. It’s infuriating. I consider changing their hue, but it would take some magic. Damn, I can’t be tired when she needs me. Xayah probably sent me this way knowing my plumage would blend in here. A red cape would look better against these steps. Maybe indigo? What’s around this corner? More steps. Only humans would cut stone into flat shapes to make a mountain boring! I should climb the cliff. Xayah said to take the steps… I’m pretty sure. I pick up some pebbles and begin to juggle them. I hear the magic writhing north of me, within the twisting roots of the Lhradi Forest. The forest’s song finds its way into my head, and I begin to sing it. “What was that?” a voice echoes from above. An entry way! A human guard appears. His clothing is dark as shadow. “Who are you?” he demands. “I am Rakan!” I reply. How can anyone not know that? “Who?” I don’t like him. I hate him more than steps. “I am Rakan! The battle-dancer of the Lhotlan tribe. I am the song of the morning. I am the dance of the midnight moon. I am the charm that—” “It’s that vastayan entertainer,” another guard interrupts. He too wears boring clothing—clothes I haven’t seen in this area before. The first guard wears a shiny golden amulet on his chest. I snatch it from him. “Hey!” “What’s this?” I ask. He doesn’t deserve this. Whatever this is. He grasps for it, but I flip it around my hand while still juggling the pebbles in the other. “Give me that!” I flick each stone into his face. “No,” I say. Then, as innocently as I can, I ask, “Is it important?” He draws a pair of hook-swords. I take one away from him before he can raise them. “Open the gate, I’ll give you back this… uh… shiny thing,” I offer as I twirl his amulet in my palm, and then send it spinning up my arm. Instead, the rude fool swings at me! I flip over his attack, and land behind him. He turns to slash again. I dive under his blade, using my rear to knock him off balance. He falls down the steps with a scream. The other guard watches his friend tumbling away, then looks back to me. I shake my head at him. “Honestly, how could anyone not know who I am?” This one stabs at me with his spear. I twist past him, allowing my feathered cloak to envelop him for a moment. Blinded, he stumbles and trips over himself. He falls onto his shield and shoots down the stairway with a clack-clack-clacking sound. Well, until he crashes into his friend on the first landing. The impact sends them both sprawling. I laugh. Now I get steps. “You are terrible dancers,” I say as I check my cloak for dirt. The two people stumble to their feet, glaring up at me. “You okay?” I ask, thankful for the amusement. They roar as they rush up the steps. Ungrateful bastards. I leap away from them and ask, “Wanna know the difference between a party and a fight?” They slash at me with their weapons again and again. “One is an entertaining day,” I say as I send them back down the stairs. “The other is… shorter.” A deafening gong sounds behind me. I smile. The fun part begins. “You gotta do better than that!” I yell, taunting my pursuers as I run. I do need to get out of here, though. There are twenty guards now. Okay, maybe thirty? More than lots. Running through their sleeping chambers was a bad idea. However, it did give me a chance to freshen up. Some of the men have those strange crossbows. They use fire from a tube. They had a name. I’m gonna call ’em tubebows. Their shots explode around me, eating holes into the wall as I dive out of the room. I slide into the courtyard, performing a full twist to give it some flair. The gate is open. I could run for it, but Xayah needs me. Hidden in an alcove, a guard swings at me with a large tubebow. Or is bowtube better? He pulls at the trigger. I leap toward him, diving over his shot. “What’s a good rhyme for tubebow?” I ask out loud. I kick the guard up in the air. As he falls, I spin and introduce my hand to his cheek. The sound is louder than his weapon. “Oh, slap!” I say, mimicking its intensity. The human rolls to his feet, pulling a short sword. “How are you not getting the message?!” I wonder if I can find a kitchen. That’s where the chocolate would be. The light in the sky is changing. I leap back into the air to check the sun’s location again. It disappears behind the hills, and an orb of green light flashes above it. “Party time!” I scream. Now, the entire castle is chasing me. “Surrender yourself!” a guard in a metal hat yells. “No! I am distracting you!” I reply. He looks at me confused. I’m gonna slap him next. A hail of arrows launches from the opposite wall. I swerve through them, enjoying the whistle they make as their fletching passes me. Would I look good in that metal hat? The golden blade hangs in the air for a second before falling. Xayah is ready to go. I take my first breath. She said I had ten, but four breaths is much too long. I need to know she’s safe. “Wanna see some sweet moves?” I ask the nearest human. He doesn’t seem enthused. I roll through the group and appear behind him. He turns just in time to meet my cloak halfway. My feathers spin him up into the air like a top. Twelve spins is my record, but that was on a hill. Second breath. The human slams into the ground after nine rotations. Damn. I don’t have time to try again. Third breath. I have to make it back to where she needs me, back to Xayah. I leap up the rampart, then bound off its roof toward the gate. I take the fourth breath in midair. Xayah runs toward the gate with some fancy juloahs—they are hairy where we have colored feathers. They must be from the Sodjoko tribe. Too formal looking, but I do like the thick ridge of hair that flows along the back of their forearms. I should make my feathers do that. The eldest one’s sarong seems like a terrible idea. “We’ll never make it,” he cries. “They have rifles!” “You mean the tubebows?” I ask. Akunir stares at me blankly. “Those are out of ammo,” I explain. “The Xini longbows too.” “What?! How?” “I am Rakan,” I explain. I expect this from humans, but my own kind? “All of you, run for the tree line,” Xayah says. A dozen men, covered in flour and chocolate, run out from the guardhouse. Mixed with eggs, they would make a thing called ‘cake.’ Pies are better though… “Run!” Xayah yells. When the old juloah fails to move, I pull him along. Coll kneels beside her guard’s body. She and Xayah pray that his spirit finds our lands. One of his horns is broken, blood pools in the leaves around him. Coll removes the last arrow from his corpse. He carried her all the way here, even after the humans wounded him. This juloah should not have died. Someone loved him. They will sing his songs. But only silence will answer. My eyes well with tears. Softly, I sing for his loss, and his family’s. Xayah stands with her fist clenched. She won’t grieve now. Instead, the pain will find her tonight when she thinks I’m asleep. That is her way. I will kiss away her sorrow then. The consul is named Akunir. He might have been a battle-dancer when he was young. He and Xayah begin arguing about politics. Coll kisses the forehead of her guard. Her jaw is tight. She holds an anger stronger than Xayah’s. She glares at her husband Akunir. She has been waiting for him to listen for far too long. “I will go back north, Akunir,” Coll says as she rises. “I will tell them what was done to us.” Her arms are as tight as branches, rigid against her sides. “Coll, no,” Akunir protests. “I will bear word of Jurelv’s fate to his kin, and mourn with them,” she says. That must have been the guard’s name. Perhaps he was kind. I like the smile lines on the side of his face. “Then, I will muster arms and prepare the tribe to fight.” “You cannot do that!” the consul yells. “I forsake my claim to you. I forsake your claim to me,” she speaks coldly. Akunir looks as if he’s been stabbed. He did not see this running down the hillside? Or in the forest? Or beside the dead guard? It was decided long ago. Moons ago. “Coll… please.” “No,” she states simply. He moves to grab her. I block him. “I will speak with my mate,” he says. I can feel his breath on my chin. He ate guloo fruit recently. My nose nearly touches his forehead. He glares up at me. I simply shake my head and shrug. I don’t need words. For this, silence is better. His remaining two guards tense. They don’t want to dance with me. I am Rakan. They know my name. They glance nervously to Xayah holding her blades. They know her name too. “Thank you, Xayah,” Coll says before limping away. Akunir and his guards watch her go. Wordlessly, they set off to the south, leaving us alone. I move close to Xayah. I feel her sadness for Jurelv, Coll, and for Akunir. I’ll drink wine tonight. Then I’ll sing rude songs. “Promise me nothing will come between us like that, mieli,” she says. “We’re not like them, miella. We’ll never be like them,” I reply. I can feel her worry. She’s smarter than me about so many things, but foolish about love sometimes. “Where to now, Xayah?” “Let’s just stay here a moment longer.” I wrap my cloak and arms around her. I will tickle her later. We will laugh and drink. She will plan and I will sing. I feel her cheek on my chest. I’m glad that Xayah needs me now. “Repeat it back to me,” she says. “We are not like them,” I say again. “We are not like them.”

Support

Rell thought about the Null often.She didn’t want to, of course. But the thoughts were intrusive and the road was long, and most of the time there wasn’t much to do besides drift back into those unhappy memories as she rode her shifting metal steed from one rumor to the next. Hours and hours of silence, and then, always, killing.This time, she was far in the outskirts of Noxian territory, following whispers of another Null child being secreted over the border.“Null.” Rell winced. Even the shape of that word hurt, and she silently swore to herself as she braced against nothing, shaking off the weight of it. Then the pain turned to anger. Then the anger turned to rage.Noxus had made the Null—and made her. And now, in their immeasurable cowardice, the Noxians couldn’t bear to look. Better to take the Null far, far away, so Noxus could go back to being glorious.Rell hated this ugly country, filled with its stupid, ugly people. She hated its bleak, strip-mined mountains, their ore gobbled up in Boram Darkwill’s foreign wars. She hated its cracked, rotten soil, used up for ration crops and then left exposed to the wind. Now the only thing that grew anywhere was the green-brown moss that seemed to cake every inch of uninhabited land, populated mostly by carnivorous lizards the size of a house.What a hideous, naïve place, she thought. So obsessed with its meritocracies, so consumed by constant expansion, that it could not and would not see what it had already become. The Black Rose and their experiments were just a symptom of its deeper sickness. Rell would tear it all down—she’d save the Null, then destroy the Empire brick by brick, even if she had to do it alone. Just like she’d ripped apart the academy.Then the boulder hit her, and for just a moment, everything was quiet.Rell had not known many of her classmates long. Most of the promising ones had been forced to fight her in “exhibition matches” to “test her strength”. She didn’t realize until much, much later that whatever shape they were in after, the instructors whisked them away, extracting their magic with essence-absorbing, stone-like sigils and leaving them Null forever.She remembered some of the kids, but the rest were a pastiche of faces punctuated by extreme pain, from the fights themselves, to the horrific, hours-long sigil grafting process that gave their power to her.The other students very quickly grew to fear her—hate her, even... and in that way, Rell was always alone.All save for one.Gabriel was a boy whose soft eyes and kind voice were not a product of Noxus, but some other far-flung locale that Rell could only scarcely imagine. He understood Rell and had an odd magic that allowed him to shape dirt into tiny fauna—the animals and birds of his homeland, dancing and playing for Rell’s amusement. Though he seemed sad to be so far from his family, the two found comfort in each other’s friendship—Gabriel spending many of his nights comforting Rell as she recovered from the academy’s abuse.It was simply a matter of time before they would face one another in combat, and while Rell seemed hopeful, Gabriel knew what was coming. Yet for a while, at least, the two could pretend.Rell awoke to the din of a warband that cautiously approached her, checking if she was dead.Unfortunately for them, she was not.Rell rose with the shattered metal plates of her steed, her titanic lance finding her hand as raw, molten ore poured upward from the ground and into the monstrous weapon. Her mount reformed, pulsating with the heat of a thousand furnaces. Raw iron contorted into shape, seizing itself into the jagged silhouette of a stallion, and Rell leapt upon its back.She counted five opponents, including a minotaur perched on a pile of large, jagged stones—probably the same kind that hit her—and then one more. A thin man in a dusty white coat clumsily tried to escape across the vast nothing of Noxian wilderness.Instructor Lukas. The man who’d brought Gabriel to the academy, and the man who took him away.Though Rell would fight anyone who stood in her path, she had a special rule for her old instructors: no questions asked, and no answers given. She wouldn’t make an exception for this one.Rell’s stallion charged forward as if it had escaped a dark, distant nightmare, and like the hammer of a scorned god, Rell’s lance slammed into the first soldier who stepped in her way. It was a weapon not made for piercing, but for crushing, and as the soldier’s eyes widened in horror, the last thing that went through his mind was his helmet.A second fighter attempted to impale Rell’s mount, but her spear snapped between its steaming plates, and Rell swatted her far into the distance—a deformed lump of scrap metal and flesh landing several yards away.Two crossbowmen, now much less confident than before, tried to beat a hasty retreat. Rell leapt into the air, her steed itself forming around her into a thick suit of impenetrable black armor, and she brought herself down upon them as the earth ripped open beneath her boundless rage.The minotaur’s rocks may have worked in a sortie, but even his great hunks of volcanic stone shattered against Rell’s armor as she slowly marched toward him. A dark knight, utterly unstoppable, who felled the great creature with a single blow.She turned her attention to her old instructor.Lukas felt the gentle pull of his former student, before chunks of superheated slag ripped him from the mossy dirt and into a whirlwind of jagged debris surrounding Rell. It was a storm of metal, heat, and hatred, and all he could whimper before the end was a panicked “Gabriel’s at the camp!” Rell crushed Lukas instantly, his broken form pounded so deeply into the ground that even the basilisks would have trouble digging out his corpse.Then the storm stopped, the slag fell away, and everything was quiet once more.True to the instructor’s last words, Gabriel was concealed in a tent within a grassy ravine where the ground had given way and created a wide, shallow indentation in the land. The perfect place to hide a camp.He was dead long before Rell found him. Malnutrition.Nullification didn’t just steal the magic of its intended victim—it sundered their soul apart, leaving a glassy-eyed husk that didn’t want anything, barely spoke, couldn’t remember, and never dreamed. A small handful had to be fed, but some Rose-aligned warbands simply chose to neglect this task out of resentment for the job.Rell looked at Gabriel... at the form wrapped in canvas who once made tiny animals leap from the ground to make her laugh when she was in pain. Digging her lance into the earth, she forced its dark metal out of her hand, then upward, then around him until his body was covered. A simple grave to mark her friend’s passing, but an indestructible one decorated with crude animals forever frozen in steel.She closed her eyes as she rode off, trying to remember Gabriel as he once was, but all Rell could see were the basilisks feasting on the dead, and her fist closing around a pale woman’s throat.

Support

18:17 Renata Glasc’s heels click angrily against the marble floors on her way to the front door. It’s a long walk, and her annoyance grows as the bells screech out the same cloying tune a second time. The mechanical fingers of her left hand unfurl as she reaches for the latch, twisting and snapping into the necessary shapes, embedding in the bespoke lock as its one and only key. She throws open the ornate copper door and looks down at her visitor. “Mave.” All of Renata’s high-ranking subordinates had been informed that her priority for the evening was debuting her Decanter at the Vesella Novelty Gala. “Ms. Glasc,” the shorter woman says with a curt nod, her prosthetic iron eyes rattling against the glass of her gel-filled goggles. “Sorry to interrupt.” “It must be important.” “We’ve gotten wind of a new type of breather. Not just a filtration unit. An air purifier.” Renata’s eyes flash. “My devisers said we had nothing to worry about on that front.” Mave shrugs—not her department. “Who’s manufacturing it?” “Baron Midstokke. Not sure where yet.” She glances at her gaudy Piltovan clock. The gala begins in just under two hours, her presentation slot is at precisely 21:05, and she hasn’t even had time to pick up the Decanter from the laboratory yet… She sighs. It looks as though the gala will have to start without her. Time to get the night back under control. 18:56 Basile, a worm of a man, grovels at Renata’s feet, dirtying her office floor with his soot-stained tears. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, breath still rank from whatever swill he’d been drinking when she’d interrupted his visit to the Corrodyne Taproom. “I’ll get the money to you in a week. Two, at the most.” Renata says nothing, letting Basile squirm and sob on the floor a little longer. He had come to her for a loan six months ago for his wife’s replacement leg after an accident at a machinist’s shop. Renata gave him what he asked for, and got him a well-paying factory job to boot. But after his wife died from sepsis and Basile tried to drown his sorrows at the taproom… it’s no surprise he can’t pay. It’s what she’s counting on. “Do you think,” she asks finally, “that I need that money? That I would even miss it?” “I…” “I’m not interested in money, dear Basile. Keep it.” Basile’s eyes fill with tears of gratitude. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Ms. Glasc—” “But.” She holds up a finger to quiet him. “There is something I need from you.” “Anything.” “You’re still working for Midstokke, yes? Got a nice little promotion last month?” Basile’s face falls. Not everyone has the stomach to get between two chem-barons. He swallows hard. “I can get you your money in… in four days, Ms. Glasc.” “No, Basile.” Renata Glasc leans down. She can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. “You’ll get me the information I need, and you’ll get it to me within the hour.” 20:23 Elodat carefully moves aside the vials and burners, the metals and wires, the tools and masks that litter her own private workspace, and lays out the first few pages of designs. Renata watches as the deviser dons a loupe, looking closely at all of the details that make these new breathers tick. There are few she would trust with this new alchemical technology, but Elodat has proven her worth time and again since she first entered Renata’s employ at age twelve. “These are unbelievable,” Elodat breathes reverently. “No filter system, no place for the toxins in the air to go. They just… destroy the toxins. Eliminate them completely.” “And you understand how it works?” Renata asks. “Would you be able to replicate the results in a similar product?” “Without question.” Elodat’s fingers twitch excitedly. “Is this my next project?” “It is.” She pauses. “But make some part of it necessary to replace. Filters are a great way to keep money rolling in. Find our version of that for a purifier.” Renata looks at Mave, who’s standing in the corner near the door and awaiting instructions. “We’re sure about the factory?” Mave nods. “My scouts confirmed it. Just beneath Midstokke’s dance hall in the Promenade as Basile said.” “Excellent. 22:30, then. That should give us both plenty of time.” Mave turns to leave, but Renata stops her and glances at the deviser. “Elodat, the Decanter’s show-ready, yes?” Elodat snorts as she marks up the design documents. “Of course, Ms. Renata.” Beside the deviser’s workstation sits the Decanter prototype. A weapon. A tool. A mechanized wonder attuned only to the gestures of Renata’s left hand. All elegant lines of gold and brass, both sinuous and sharp, protective, yet delicate. Bubbling inside the contraption is the glowing magenta liquid that encompasses Renata’s entire inheritance. Renata twirls one of her mechanical fingers in the air. In response, one of the vials attached to the Decanter fills with a pink gas. She plucks a breather from Elodat’s desk and grabs the vial, clicking it into the mask in place of a filtration unit. “Make things easy on yourself,” she says as she tosses the mask to Mave. With a nod, Mave exits. “Um, Ms. Renata?” The deviser looks at the floor as Renata turns back to her. “How are my parents? I haven’t seen them in… yeah.” “They’ve just bought a house,” Renata says casually. “And I’ve found work for your brother and his fiancé at a cultivair. Your work has kept them very happy.” A pause. “You should visit them.” Elodat’s head snaps up. “Really?” “Absolutely.” With a beckoning gesture from Renata, the Decanter’s thrusters fire, lifting it into the air. It bobs beside her as she walks toward the door. “After the demonstration.” 21:46 “And now, finally,” the announcer says with a glare at Renata, “we have the newest product from Glasc Industries, presented by the fabulous Renata Glasc, herself! Renata, darling, please join us on the stage!” With practiced ease, Renata steps out from behind the curtain to ravenous applause. Wealthy Piltovans, dressed to impress, fill the Vesella clan’s lavish ballroom, eager to hear about the newest novelties from their favorite Zaunite. The announcer claps politely, though his eyes roll at this level of excitement from the audience. Renata removes her mask. Every breath she takes of the empty Piltovan air cuts her throat like glass, but still, she smiles. “A big thank you to the Vesella clan for having me! What a treat it is to spend an evening in your beautiful city. “For many of you, ‘chemtech’ is a scary word. An ugly word. One of iron and decay. What, then, could a Zaunite have to offer Piltover? Glasc Industries has shown you time and again that chemtech doesn’t have to be ugly. And tonight, I’m going to show you that it can be beautiful.” A flick of her wrist, and the Decanter floats across the stage past the announcer to Renata. Delighted gasps punctuate the murmur of the crowd. So easily pleased. So hopelessly naïve. “The Glasc Industries Decanter, a milestone in the world of healing! Alchemist and nursemaid all in one, creating medicine and administering it in the same breath.” She’s interrupted by the announcer coughing into his sleeve. She turns to him, knowing full well that none of the chemicals in the Decanter are strictly medicinal. “Would our kind announcer be interested in helping with a demonstration?” 22:29 Renata sips her sparkling wine as yet another potential investor approaches her. Across the room, the announcer stands beside the Decanter and hands out Renata’s business cards—just as Renata had... suggested. She peers at her pocket watch and walks toward a balcony with a phenomenal evening view of Piltover. Below, even Zaun’s promenade level is visible from here... 22:30 An explosion lights up the promenade. Right about where Baron Midstokke’s dance hall is, in fact. Or, rather, where it used to be. But no one in the Vesella clan’s ballroom seems to care. A glance is the most any of them spare for the tragedy down in Zaun. It’s beneath them. Except for Renata Glasc, who watches with a chuckle and takes another sip of her fine Piltovan wine.

Support

There’s a saying on my island. “Only through stealing our breath can the wind speak.” You want me to describe the Black Mist that greeted me when I first arrived in the Ionian village, hood raised, relic cannon on my back?The Mist steals words too. The screams of those who die within.Once, they were my screams—but I’m alive now.I felt the warmth where Lucian’s hand touched my shoulder as we stepped off the boat onto Ionian soil, somehow reaching through my walls the way only he can. The way he’s the only fool stubborn enough to try.To learn the one thing that gets through my armor, and all the rules beneath, is love.“You go high, I go low?” I asked, feeling his warmth go cold as he considered. For a moment, he didn’t see me standing before him. He saw the woman he tried to save, who was cursed, always running. He saw the scythe, swinging toward her… He looked straight into her eyes, even as he looked into mine.“I go low,” he said, leaving other things to silence. And now his hands were on his guns. “Senna…” His voice broke with the weight of the memory.“It’s okay,” I said softly. I could remember that woman too.On the horizon, darkness swirled, casting even darker shadows onto a village carved into stone, deluged by heavy rain, and worse. Somewhere in that darkness was light. Another Sentinel who’d called us here.I’d have to fight my way to it.The path up the mountain to the village was nearly worn away by centuries of storms, washing away everything but the toughest crags… if that’s the right damn word. I could feel the wind pressing against my hood, the spray of the ocean hard against my skin, as if the world were pushing me back, warning me of the darkness ahead. But none of that compared to what hit me as a howl rose up, roaring through the village…It was my curse. The Mist knew I was here. It would come for me before anyone else.“Must be time for my daily ambush,” I muttered, unmoved, and from a horizon black with death, souls poured forth. Drawn to me as I drew breath.As I drew my weapon.The relic stones of fallen Sentinels moved as one, each held by too many hands before mine. Men and women, fathers, sisters, all lost to darkness. But when I held my weapon, I held their light, gleaming in the gun’s two barrels.A tendril of Mist hit me as the wraith within took shape. Staggered by the blow, I stumbled back, catching my footing just before falling toward the rocks below. Thunder pealed as the screams of souls joined the rain and crashing waves that besieged the island. But the flash of light that followed wasn’t lightning.It was my relic cannon, the shot boiling the wraith into shadow.It required control. It required focus. I needed to fight the Mist with every fiber of my being. And I could not stop. Not for a moment of my life.With every shot that burned a wraith away, another was revealed. I was so close to the village now, I could see new wraiths rising, sent spiraling toward me.Into blessed light.“Anabal, are you there?” I called out. I’d met him only once, when Urias brought me to a meeting of Sentinels. It was rare for Sentinels to gather, but something had frightened Urias that made him call them all together. He never told me what it was, but I could tell by the way the others looked at me…It hurt more when they didn’t know. When they tried to get past my armor, only to find the reason it was there.Still firing, I advanced further into the village. The wraiths moved fast, swooping into buildings nearly as old as the island itself, carved from the same stone. But there was order in the chaos. The wraiths were circling above. They wanted something. Not just life. Not just souls. Not just me…“Anabal!” I called again, barely hearing myself over the storm.“Over here! Hurry!” a panicked voice responded. It was the voice of a girl… and then her light joined mine in the darkness.Anabal’s apprentice, Daowan.She stood above a crumpled body, two figures in the dark. The light of Anabal’s relic-stone glaive glowed dully on her face, concentration clear on her brow as she defended her fallen mentor.He had managed to pass the torch, then… his relic stone was not lost.“We have to get out of here,” the girl said with a shudder. “We have to get the villagers out of here. I can still hear them. It must be them…” She paused and looked down at the shape at her feet, in confused agony. “I can still hear him…”But even as her knuckles grew white, clenching the haft of her glaive, I put my relic cannon on my back. I reached out gently and took her shoulder.“We’re going to get through this,” I said. Beyond her, I saw the entrance to the village catacombs. Swarming with wraiths. “All of us,” I added softly.Whatever the Mist wanted, it was there.The catacombs had been carved out by countless floods. As we left the village behind, heading underground, still the storm made itself known, water rolling down the walls around us. But if we were going to drown in the depths, it wouldn’t be from rising sea, or falling squall…It would be in the Black Mist that rolled like a wave to meet us, swallowing our light in a liquid roar.I could hear the screams of the people from my village, torn away when I was just a girl and first saw death. I could hear the echoes of my own, and see the look on Lucian’s face, when death first saw me. I was hit by the rage and fear of the people still dying above, their cries in a language I couldn’t understand, but speaking of pain I knew all too well.Wraiths rose up throughout the catacombs, trapped in a rictus of the agony they meant to inflict. But no matter how loud the screams of the living, the sound could never drown out their own. And no matter how brightly my light burned, it could never hurt them worse than when the darkness returned.And so instead… I embraced them, before death could.My call was irresistible. I could draw the Mist to myself, away from others. I felt death rush in, push the lie of my body away. As the Mist clung to me, one by one, it let the souls go. All who had been drawn here. All who had died above. For a moment, I thought I saw Anabal…Only one vague shape lingered, a will still slowly awakening. It hovered for a moment before turning to face me, rage burning where there were no eyes.“No,” I whispered through the shroud of death that had transformed me into a wraith. “You don’t get to speak. You listen.”Pushing the Mist into my gun, I fired all the pain and fear I’d gathered back at its source, where it was deserved. As darkness collided with darkness, the light within me glowed. Life wouldn’t let me go. I felt my body return, as the last of the Mist left me. With a gasp, I fell to my knees.“What did I miss?” a voice asked, emerging from deeper in the tunnels.“You know. The usual,” I said coolly, though I was still catching my breath.“Ruined King raiding catacombs to find who knows what?” Lucian asked.“Pretty much,” I answered. I looked up at Daowan, realization dawning on her face. Her glaive was still pointed at me.There’s a saying on my island. “Only through stealing our breath can the wind speak.”In the roaring clamor of the Black Mist, I hear the words of the dead.And I’m here to give their voices back.

Support

It was a perfectly good night for a cup of tea. Chilly, certainly, but clear—as crisp a night as frigid Mount Targon ever got, really. Soraka was expecting a visitor. The snow in the stone kettle had already begun to melt over the hearth at the center of her little yurt; as it grew warmer, the room was suffused with the smell of dried tea leaves and sparse mountain herbs. She crossed the room, passing the shelf she’d built herself along the back wall. Like the rest of her home, it was ever-so-slightly crooked. As far as mortal skills went, carpentry was not her strong suit. But she had built it because she loved the keepsakes on the shelf: a willow-wreath from Omikayalan, a tiny golden acorn from a dear friend in Bandle City, and oldest of all, surely older than anything mortal, was a stone dog from the old days of Nashramae. She owed that city another visit. She hadn’t been back in centuries, and she had a fondness for its people. But she was shaken from her reverie as the commotion started outside. Shouting. Barking. Precisely on time. In the darkness a pack of wolves surrounded a huddled lump in the snow. She strode out into the night, drawing her shoulders back, her head high. The moon was out and appeared slightly too large, as it often seemed to on Targon. Her home, nestled partway up the peak, was framed to the east by craggy flats, and to the west by a sheer drop into the mist far below. A constant frigid wind battered everything westward. It wasn’t uncommon for wild creatures to be battered on their way across the flats, too… but it was rare that they found prey. The wolves turned to snarl at her, half-illuminated in the yellow light from the yurt’s windows. Meanwhile, the lump rolled over. It was a girl. Frightened eyes stared back at Soraka, a wooden spear clutched between two shaking hands. Only one thing brought people to this remote cliffside on the approach to the Holy Mount. But they were never this young. The wolves lunged for Soraka in unison, and she heard the stars cry out in her defense. Sparks trickled from her fingertips as she rained golden fire down on the pack. The slam of impacts sent most of the wolves skittering back with primal fear, but one of them was left behind, its hindquarters crushed beneath the weight of the dying embers. It moaned and rasped, struggling. She saw the remainder of the pack disappearing over the icy barrens, abandoning their fellow to his fate. Soraka shook her head and instantly knelt in the singed snow, her hands already outstretched. She couldn’t bear to feel the poor thing’s pain. It tugged at her. As she laid her hands along its bloodied back haunches, it snarled, digging its teeth into her arm. Ouch. Mortality had its drawbacks. “Stop!” the girl cried. “It… It’ll kill you!” Soraka felt her face melting into a smile. “I’m not afraid of wolves,” she replied, as light spread down her arms and into the wolf’s mangled body. “Besides,” she added, “Targon belongs to him as much as to me.” The creature’s flesh began to knit back together, the crushed bones becoming whole once more, like clay taking proper shape in an artisan’s hands. But the magic burned as it left her. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the pain for a moment. When she opened them, the wolf had retreated. Only the girl remained. Her eyes flicked upwards, tracing the line of Soraka’s horn, and Soraka already knew what she was thinking. “Are you… one of those things?” “One of what?” “Demons. I’ve heard…” Soraka laughed. But before she could respond, the girl sagged weakly, the spear tip dropping. It was only then, her mind clearing, that Soraka finally felt the enormity of the girl’s own pain. Her arms were black all the way to the elbows. Her fingers were frozen to the spear, the flesh swollen red above that. Frostbite like this… she’d be dead soon. When she laid her hands upon the girl’s arms, the girl flinched, and Soraka was worried. Humans were curious creatures when it came to healing. Their minds were intricate. It had to be a mutual agreement—they had to want to heal. Sometimes she’d get the tendrils of her magic deep into a wound and find that the mind pushed her right back out again. But not here. The girl was too tired, all vestiges of her energy spent getting her this far up the mountain. Soraka flooded the dead flesh with all the power she could give, pushing through the pain. Coils of emerald light wound their way up the girl’s arms. The spear dropped to the ground. As Soraka worked, she watched the skin fade through black, red and purple to its proper dusky color. There. That should do it. “Do I seem like a demon to you?” Soraka asked. Her gold eyes glimmered in the darkness. The girl was silent. After a moment, Soraka pressed her. “You’re making the summit climb. Why?” But the girl just looked away, ashamed, rubbing her newly-restored arms. “My family,” she blurted, shaking her head. “We… We Rakkor—we’re warriors. And my mother, she’s the strongest of all. You don’t know what it’s like to be the only one who can’t fight. To be…” she bit her lip, struggling to find the word. “Weak.” Soraka swept a hand out towards the dirt path the girl had followed, the one which led all the way to Targon’s base. “You came this far, and still you think yourself weak?” “I won’t be soon,” the girl replied, her hands balling into fists now. “Not when I reach the summit. I’ll walk off the final peak and right into the sky, just like the old stories. And then—then they’ll be forced to accept that I’m strong. No one made of the stars could ever be brought low.” “If only that were true,” Soraka said, flashing a too-sharp grin. She scarcely caught the girl’s face breaking out into stunned amazement as she turned, walking to the edge of the path. Above them the stars spread out against the inky sky, brighter than they were anywhere else in the world. They sang songs only she could hear. This was home to her. It hadn’t always been. But it was the home she’d made. “Come,” Soraka beckoned. And she raised her hand, trailing her fingers across the heavens. As she did, she knit the clouds and mist into shapes which wound their way against the moon and became faces the girl would no doubt have recognized from stories. A young woman with pale hair. Her counterpart, a woman whose face burned as brightly as the sun. And a warrior with a spear not unlike the girl’s own. “All of these mortals ascended to the peak. But they had chosen that path with all their soul.” She turned to the girl and spoke slowly, taking no delight in her words. “You have not truly chosen the mountain. And Targon will not choose you. You would walk to your death. Don’t do this.” The girl turned away. She was silent a long time. “Where, then?” she said at last, her voice rough. “I can’t go home. I can’t go back to them. Where else would I go?” Soraka smiled. “The world is vast. Your paths are many. I can help, if you let me.” The images in the moon had faded. Soraka motioned to the cheerful yellow yurt nestled among the rocks nearby. “But first, better come on inside and get warm. No sense in starting back until dawn comes. Besides, I’ve got a kettle on. Perfectly good night for a cup of tea.”

Support

My, that’s quite the haul ye have, there! Won at the tables, was it? Well, here’s to your very good health. Cheers. Oh, no, I’ll not be rollin’ the dice with ye. Not a gamblin’ man no more, or so I tells me self. There were a time, though... What happened? The River King happened, that’s what. Aye, Two-Coats, that old devil Tahm Kench. He’s what happened. I was bilge-poor, beg your pardon, and livin’ in a flophouse. Had nothin’ to me name, not ‘til a single gold Krakenaye, this one ‘erecome into my possession. I could tell you how, but you’d call me a liar, heh. So, with this one coin, what I oughta done was pay me debts, and find a new crew to join. I was a harpooner, see. Shoulda put aside whatever was left for the future. Been responsible, like. Harpoonin’s a harsh life, even for a younger man. But that’s when the River King found me. “Why work someone else’s ship,” he says, “slavin’ away, riskin’ your life for next t’ nothin’, when ye might ‘ave a ship o’ your own?” I just had to think bigger, like. O’ course, one Kraken won’t buy a ship, but ‘e had an answer to that, didn’t he. Dice. One good throw o’ the bones, an’ I’d ‘ave enough to start me own little operation. Others could do the danger work, while I sits back, nice and plum, enjoyin’ the profits. An’ after a few more drinks, you understand, that crooked devil’s advice starts to make a lot o’ sense to my ears. So, blinded by greed and possibility, I went along wi’ it. That night were a blur. I awoke well after noon the next day, me head fairly poundin’! Had no idea where I wassome fancy bawdy-house, as it turns outbut on the dresser were me previous night’s winnings... more than enough to purchase me self a ship! Ah, but the River King, ‘e’d given me a taste for somethin’ more. Why should young Lars content his self with a single ship, when he could ‘ave a fleet? Just needed to chance me hand a few more times... That’s Bilgewater. There’s riches to be had, if you’re willin’ to risk everything, over and over. With old Two-Coat’s arm around me, I was led from the dice tables to other halls of avaricefrom backroom card games to gamblin’ and bettin’ parlors, high and low. I spent a fortune, lost a fortune, then made it all back again. Around and around in that allurin’ spiral I went. I was feelin’ the hunger, the yearning, and it was pullin’ me down like a whirlpool. Years passed, an’ somewhere along the way, I’m ashamed to say I forgot what I was doing all this for. I forgot who I was. I had it all, but it never were enough. I wanted more. And then I started losin’ big. That made me double-down, go for broke, all-or-nothin’, looking for the big stakes to put me back on top. Pretty soon, I was in a worse state than I’d been to start with. Sleepin’ in the gutter, catching rats to eat if I were lucky. I begged, borrowed and stole from everyone who’d ever shown me any kindness. Lost all me mates, chasing the dream. ‘E feeds on misery, see, does Tahm Kench. As old as sin, ‘e is, and older than Bilgewater by far. Been ‘round from the start of things, gorgin’ his self on the desperation what comes with the greed and sorrow in men’s hearts. I mean, I’d done it to me self, but it were him what give me the means. Ye might say, ‘e took me to the cliff’s edge, but I were the numpty what threw me self off, beg your pardon, and that old glutton revelled in me despair. Came to me once more, ‘e did, when I was at me very lowest, drinkin’ from puddles, havin’ sold me own leg to be used for chum. In the darkest night, whisperin’ an’ cajolin’, ‘e pressed this gold Kraken back into me hand, with a knowin’ wink. ‘Twere the same one I’d ‘ad back at the start! It were this damn coin what started me on that wretched path! Eh, ‘e opened his mouth up wide, and says, “It’s not too late, Lars. Never too late. Come with me, an’ we’ll find you a fortune again...” Even after everythin’, I was tempted. ‘Course I was! But no. I resistedMother Serpent knows how. Two-Coats only laughed. Said he’d be there when I changed me mind. And, sure enough, the temptation’s still there, now, every day. So here I am. Friendless. Broke. All the best years of me life behind me, wasted in those lost decades. Can’t remember most of it, neither, so I’ve no idea if I even enjoyed me self. Anyways. Enough o’ my ramblin’. There’s a lesson to be learned, ‘erekeep your purse strings tight, and never, ever make a deal wi’ the River King. Ye’ve always got more to lose...

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I look out across the once-verdant field, now scarred and ruined by the toil of battle. The loss of life will be immense, but I cannot save those who seek their own destruction. All those sons, all those fathers, all those futures lost. Demacians and Noxians, ever at each other’s throats, magnetically drawn to one another by something lesser than both. Plenty of defenders exist for their lofty ideals, and they all stand in my way, almost gleefully slaughtering themselves over a scrap of land, with no idea of its true importance. Two armies entwined, both committed to their ruinous dance. I could try to reason with them, ask them to move their brawl elsewhere, but my former countrymen now see me as something between a traitor and a wrathful god, and the Noxians… well, the Noxians have always been short on patience. My usual weapons—wit, charm, and warmth—are useless in this cauldron of desperation. So I push aside those who would slow me, and wade into those who would stop me. Every kind of horror one soul can inflict on another rages around me as I near my goal. And there, dead center of the roiling fury of battle, the blaze of color calls to me—a delicate life about to be snuffed out amid the mud- and gore-covered boots. Standing bravely, unbowed by the thudding dullness of the armored brutes around it, its beauty rings out like a single crystal bell. It is the last flower of its kind. If it dies, no more shall bloom. I can not allow it to perish. The two opposing commanders pause in their combat as I approach, an uninvited guest at their last moments. They turn to me, suddenly allied in their outrage at my intrusion. I stand at the very eye of the two armies, seemingly inviting the cold embrace of death from all sides. But unlike all those who are now taking wary steps toward me, their sword hands trembling, I know why I fight.

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My yordle Norra snores into the pages of my friend, Book. My tail twitches as dozens of moon-moths sail in through the open window like floating lanterns, and I leap joyfully into the air, not caring if I catch one. I bounce higher and higher, batting at the moon-moths as they drift all around me. One of them bends and turns inside itself, lashing about until it twists into the shape of a mackerel. Around me, the other moon-moths spin in mid-air, all transforming into floating fish. Delicious—until the whole world turns upside down. Books cascade up from the shelves, landing on the ceiling with a dozen thuds. My Norra floats upward, still asleep. The fish flounder in every direction as we all fall up, up, up— I wake up, blinking sleepily in a wooden box as moonlight shines through the slats. How in a mouse’s house did I get here? Oh yes. The tasty stink of fish fills my nose and I remember prowling the streets of Bilgewater, finding a crate of dried fish, then eating my fill before falling into a deep, belly-full sleep. Before I can get comfy again, my stomach lurches and I’m knocked onto my side. Dozens of dried fish fall on top of me—just like my dream!—and my stomach purrs. Book flutters in the corner as it tries to edge away from the falling fish. It’s always hinting that food is bad for its pages. I think dried-up-trees would be much improved with the smell of fish, but Book knows much more about dried-up-trees than I do, so I don’t argue. I peek through the cracks between the slats. The floor beneath us creaks and shifts while, in the distance, moonlight flickers on the surface of the… ocean! “Book, whyyy?!” I cry. “Naps never lead to bad things!” Book opens and closes in exasperation. I don’t do water, and neither does Book. I start to panic. Book rustles, reminding me not to worry—but it’s too late. I scratch and scramble at the wood in desperation, and I shred some of the dried fish by accident. This ocean is making me destroy my yummiest snack—it’s the worst type of water! I paw at Book’s cover, opening it to a frost-tinged portal that will take us far away from this watery nightmare. We have to escape somewhere, anywhere. Even somewhere cold. I’m about to jump into Book’s portal when I hear a scream that sounds like tinkling bells and the brightest rainbows. A scream that makes my fur stand on end. A yordle scream. I peek through the slats in the crate and watch as two human sailors drag a blue-furred yordle to the edge of the bustling ship’s deck. One of them has black chin-whiskers and the other is chubby, and both are smirking. They step over roped stacks of harpoons, fishing poles, spears, and coils of thick fishing wire. Must be deep-sea monster hunters. “This little ’un is gonna fetch us a prize gulperfish, eh?” the first sailor says. “I hear the biggest fish love yordle meat,” says the chubbier sailor. “Never tried it before, myself. Not a lot of yordles ’round Bilgewater.” The blue-furred yordle squeals and struggles against them. “I’m not bait!” he exclaims, squeaking with each word. “I beg you, please release me!” The sailors don’t budge. The whole ship tilts as a particularly large bump shakes my crate. “Ah, that’ll be the fish now. Time to fill our boat with gulperflesh!” says the first sailor, grinning. I don’t like his grin. An enormous fin circles our boat, making lion-sized waves that bash the side of our ship. I feel Book tugging at me. I know it wants us to escape through a portal, to get away from the bad water right now before anyone sees us, but I hear the yordle cry out. I stick my paw through the slats in the crate and open the crate’s latch. I won’t leave a yordle alone to die. Not after losing my Norra. The sailors watch the fin thrash around in the water. They don’t notice me as I leap from my crate like the quietest tiger and stalk them from behind. The poor yordle is tied to a long fishing pole, which the sailors are dangling over the ocean. The water beneath him is bubbling and frothing. How does water always move in the worst ways?! I jump over the pile of harpoons and Book follows, flying next to me and nervously flapping its pages as it hovers in the air. They see us. “Is that a purple raccoon—with a flying book?” one of the sailors asks. “I think it’s a baby bear with a journal,” says another. “No, you idiots, it’s just a cat,” says a third. “Get it!” The sailors rush at me, but I dart swiftly between their feet. I unfurl a coil of magic that twists and tangles around their legs. They trip and topple like cups on a table. I perch on the ship’s railing next to the fishing pole, unsure what to do next. The waves swirl below us, and my hunting instincts kick in—something’s gonna pounce. “Untie me!” shouts the yordle as he clings to the fishing rod. “I am not a piece of bait. This is quite strange and embarrassing!” Luckily for him, I am not afraid of fish. Even if I don’t like water. I bound onto the fishing pole. In the midst of a cat’s leap, sometimes time slows. With my paws splayed out like pancakes and wind rushing through my fur over the terrible water, I am determined to save this yordle with everything I’ve got. Besides, mid-leap, there’s no going back. “Don’t worry, small blue yordle!” I shout. “I got you!” The yordle’s fate and mine intertwine as I land on its shoulder, with Book right behind. The fishing pole wobbles under our weight. The biggest fish I’ve ever seen—a third the size of the boat—bursts from the sea with its mouth gaping open, hundreds of teeth glistening in the moonlight. Its jaws open so wide it could swallow a pair of cows, without even chewing them up. Even in the dark, with my shinylight I can see its skin is made up of pointed razor-sharp scales of silver and violet. The giant gulperfish swallows us whole—the yordle, Book, me, and even a bit of the fishing pole, with room to spare. We jostle against the roof of the fish’s mouth as it falls back into the water. It’s pitch-black, and smells like old seafood! Before it can gulp us down, though, I balloon open a magical shield that bubbles around us, lodging us in the fish’s leathery gullet. I blink on my shinylight again, illuminating some seriously rotten teeth that explain the awful smell. The yordle squeals at the sight. The fish lashes about, and the three of us are thrown in every direction, protected by the impermeable bubble. What a strange way to make new friends! I try to open Book so the three of us can escape, but the gulperfish leaps into the air once more, and we are tossed into a heap inside the bubble. We fall with a thud—the fish must have landed on the ship’s deck. I hear the sailors shouting as the enormous gulper thrashes back and forth, slapping them with its tail. I hear a splash, and another, and another. The humans must have been knocked into the water. Still stuck in the throat of the gulperfish, I flip Book open to a portal that shimmers with the dusky green of Bandle City, the green of home. I grab the small yordle’s shirt with my teeth and dive into the page. The portal widens and we spin into the spirit realm, dizzy and whirling into a jumble of colors. We emerge, coughing, on the banks of a shallow creek. My lungs fill with the sweet air of Bandle City, thick and lush as in my dream. Sapphire-blue crickets chirp in the twilight as the brook babbles gently, full of fish—normal-sized fish. Book flaps its pages to dry off. The blue-furred yordle stands up, dripping and shaking. “What was that? How did we… escape?” he asks. “Wasn’t the nearest Bilgewater portal back on the docks?” “Lucky for us, Book carries our portals around wherever we go,” I say. Book twirls, showing off its dried-up-tree pages, each inscribed with a magical gateway outlined in ink and paint. “Well, thank you for saving me, both of you,” says the yordle. He looks at Book curiously. “Is this where you’re from, too?” “Yes, but we don’t live here anymore,” I say. I look at Book, sadly, thinking of master. Book flutters. I know it thinks it’s time to move on. “You know how to get home from here?” I ask the yordle. “Yes, yes, just up the hill past the bowl-moles. I know this meadow well. And I do hope you find your yordle,” he says, before wandering off. I stay for a moment, watching as the gloaming turns to daybreak. I catch a glimpse of a moon-moth hovering on the horizon and I long to pounce on it, but I remember that Norra is still lost somewhere, perhaps waiting for us to rescue her this very minute. I pat Book as gently as I can with my paw—I know it misses her too. Then I open it to a new page, and dive in.

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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

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Many civilizations have resisted Noxus, but none as long as the clans of the Great Barrier mountains. Though these fierce minotaurs had protected the overland trade routes to the ancient city of Zaun for centuries, they preferred to avoid Valoran’s wider conflicts. The noble warrior Alistar was respected among all the clans. Out on the mountain peaks, his roar could scatter even the bravest trespassers, leaving only the foolhardy to face him in combat. Even so, in the moot halls he would always urge his kin to forge greater bonds with other mortal races. Many saw minotaurs as little more than beasts, which soured any interaction and kept them firmly as outsiders. Then Noxus came, promising something better. Their emissary, the matriarch of House Tewain, proclaimed that the empire was poised to take Basilich, a coastal city to the east. However, she pledged that they would not do this without the support of the great clans of the mountains, and called for parley on neutral ground. Many of the minotaurs were eager to accept her offer. This was a way to gain the power and recognition they sought, by joining with Noxus. But Alistar remained skeptical—he had encountered many Noxian scouts in recent years, and knew them to be a duplicitous and cunning people. For this reason, his clan sent him to meet Tewain, along with fifty of their mightiest warriors, to reject any alliance. The other clans could do as they wished, but Alistar would not accept the rule of some distant “Grand General”. Under the banners of truce, he and his kin were betrayed. The larger clans had already pledged themselves to Noxus, and their representatives turned against him as soon as he made his position known. The battle was swift and bloody, and Alistar himself crushed Lady Tewain’s skull with his bare hands—but soon enough he and his surviving warriors found themselves bound in chains, headed for the distant Noxian capital, accused of inciting rebellion. These unfortunate minotaurs found themselves cast into the Reckoning arenas of the capital, as part of a grim gladiatorial festival known as the Fleshing. Alistar was appalled by the chanting of the bloodthirsty spectators. He implored his clanfolk not to fight back, not to give these Noxians the monstrous display they so craved… When the festival ended twenty-one days later, Alistar was the only member of his tribe left. Pelted with pebbles and rotten fruit from the crowd, dragged out to face Reckoner after Reckoner, he was driven to fight like a beast—and think like one. He killed and killed until even his memories of home became stained with blood. Alistar had fallen far by the time he met Ayelia, a servant girl in the arenas. At first he bellowed and charged the bars of his cage, expecting her to fear or goad him like the others, but Ayelia did neither. She returned every day, and spoke to him with gentle respect, until eventually Alistar answered in kind. Ayelia’s homeland had also been claimed by Noxus, and seeing his suffering had convinced her they should leave this hateful city together. She whispered her plans through the bars, and for the first time in years Alistar found he could think of home without dwelling on the way it had been taken from him. One night, Ayelia brought Alistar the key to his cell. She had sacrificed much to arrange this escape, and he swore he would repay her tenfold. They hurried to the river, where a cargo barge awaited them. However, as they boarded, Noxian agents burst from the shadows. Alistar hurled himself into battle, his vision tunneled with rage, and although Ayelia called out to him again and again, he did not hear. By the time Alistar had slain their attackers, the boat was gone—and Ayelia with it—so he fled south on foot instead. He searched everywhere for the servant girl, but found nothing. Had she been captured? Killed? It seemed there were no clues left to find. Weeks later, a political coup shook the empire to its dark foundations, and the arena minotaur’s escape was quite forgotten. Alistar now travels alone, as quietly and anonymously as he can, encouraging resistance in Noxian-held territories and fighting on behalf of the downtrodden and the abused. Only when he has cleared the shame from his heart, repaying every cruelty and every kindness, will Alistar return to the mountains and leave his rage behind. And in every city he passes through, he asks after Ayelia.

Tank

“The gods were angry, and shook the land. Cracks rent the earth,” said old Khaldun, his crag-featured face lit by firelight. “It was into one of these fissures that a young man ventured. He found an opening; the entrance to a tomb, hidden for the Jackal knows how long. The man had little ones to feed and a wife to please, and so he ventured in, lured by opportunity.” Adults and children alike crowded in close to hear the old storyteller’s words. They were all weary - they had traveled far that day, and the Shuriman sun had been unrelenting - but Khaldun’s tales were a rare treat. They drew their cloaks tight around their shoulders against the chill of the night and leaned in. “The air was cool in the tomb, a merciful relief from the scorching heat outside. The young man lit a torch. Its light made shadows dance before him. He stepped cautiously, wary of traps. He was poor, but he was no fool. “The walls inside were smooth obsidian and carved with ancient writings and images. He could not read – he was a simple man – but he studied the images. “He saw a boy prince, sitting cross-legged upon a sun disk borne by a team of servants, a beaming smile upon his face. Chests of coins and riches were piled before him, the offerings of strangely garbed, bowing emissaries. “He saw other carvings, again showing the smiling prince, this time walking among his people. Their heads were pressed to the ground before him. Stylized rays of sunshine radiated from the boy’s crown. “Before one of these images was a small, gold statue. It alone was worth more than he could have hoped to earn in ten lifetimes. The young man took it, slipping it into his satchel. “He did not intend to linger. He knew it would not be long before others came upon this place. When they did, he wanted to be gone. Greed makes fools of even the greatest men, and he knew that others would willingly spill his blood to claim that golden statue - and the other riches that were surely further in. Avarice was not one of the young man’s faults, however. He felt no need to delve further. The other treasures hidden here were someone else’s to claim. “He looked upon one last image before he left the tomb. It showed the boy prince dead, lying upon a bier. Those closest to him were wailing... but further back, people were celebrating. Had the boy prince been beloved, or had he been a tyrant? There was no way of knowing. “That was when he heard it: a sound in the darkness that made his skin crawl. “He looked around, wide eyed, holding his torch up before him. Nothing. “‘Who’s there?’ he said. Silence was his only answer. “The young man shook his head. ‘It is just the wind, you fool,’ he thought. ‘Nothing but the wind.’ “Then he heard it again, more distinctly this time. A child was crying in the darkness further into the tomb. “Heard anywhere else, his paternal instinct would have been to go to the sound. But here, in the darkness of a funereal tomb? “He wanted to run... but he did not. The sobbing touched his heart. It was filled with such misery and grief. “Was it possible there was another entrance to this tomb? Had a young boy found his way down here and become lost? “Torch held high, he crept forward. The weeping continued, echoing faintly through the gloom. “A wide chamber opened before him, its floor black and highly reflective. Golden artifacts and jewel-inlaid walls glinted within. Gingerly, he entered the room. “He stepped back sharply as his heel sent ripples spreading out across the floor. Water. The floor was not made of reflective obsidian – it was covered in water. “Kneeling, he scooped a handful of it to his lips. He spat it out immediately. It was salt water! Here, in the heart of Shurima, a thousand leagues from the nearest sea! “He heard the sound of the boy weeping once more, closer now. “Holding his torch before him, the young man glimpsed a shape at the edge of its light. It appeared to be the child, sitting with his back to the man. “Carefully, he stepped into the room. The water upon the floor was not deep. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and fear clutched at his chest, yet he did not turn to run. “‘Are you lost?’ he asked, as he stepped closer. ‘How did you get here?’ “The shadowed figure did not turn... but he did speak. “‘I... I don’t remember,’ he said. The sound swam around the young man, echoing off the walls. The boy spoke in an old dialect. His words were strange... but understandable. ‘I don’t remember who I am.’ “‘Be calm, child,’ said the man. ‘All will be well.’ “He stepped closer, and the figure resolved itself before him. His eyes widened. “The shape before him was a god-statue carved in onyx, nothing more. It was not the source of the crying, nor of the child’s voice. “That was when a small, dry hand grabbed him.” The youngest of the listeners gasped, his eyes wide. The other children laughed in false bravado. Old Khaldun smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the firelight. Then, he continued. “The young man looked down. The linen-wrapped corpse of the tiny prince stood beside the man. Dull, ghostly light emanated from the deathly boy’s eye sockets, though his entire face was bound in burial wrappings. The corpse-child held the man’s hand. “‘Will you be my friend?’ the boy asked, his voice muffled by linen. “The young man lurched backward, breaking free of the child’s grasp. The young man looked down at his arm in horror; his hand was shriveling, turning black and withered. The wasting touch then began to climb up his arm. “He turned and ran. In his shock and haste, he dropped his lantern. It hissed as it fell into the lake of tears, and darkness descended. Still, he could just make out the glow of daylight up ahead. He ran toward it, scrambling desperately, even as the wasting death crept up his arm towards his heart. “At any moment, he expected to feel the deathly boy’s grasp upon him... but did not. After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a matter of heartbeats, he burst from the darkness into the desert heat once more. “‘I’m sorry,’ echoed a mournful voice from the gloom behind him. ‘I didn’t mean to.’ “And thus, the Tomb of Amumu was unearthed,” said old Khaldun, “and the deathly child released into the world.” “But everyone knows he isn’t real!” cried one of the children, the oldest of them, after a moment of silence. “Amumu is real!” said the youngest. “He’s wandering the land trying to find a friend!” “He’s real, but he isn’t a boy,” said another. “He’s a Yordle!” Khaldun laughed, and pushed himself to his feet with the aid of a gnarled walking stick. “I am old, and we have far to travel tomorrow,” he said. “It is past time I was abed.” His audience began to dissipate, smiling and talking in low, familial voices, but one child did not move. She stared at Khaldun, unblinking. “Grandfather,” she said. “How did you lose your arm?” Old Khaldun looked down at the empty sleeve pinned at his shoulder, then flashed the girl a grin. “Goodnight, little one,” he said with a wink.

Tank

There is a place between dimensions, between worlds. To some it is known as the Outside, to others it is the Unknown. To those that truly know, however, it is called the Void. Despite its name, the Void is not an empty place, but rather the home of unspeakable things - horrors not meant for minds of men. Cho'Gath is a creature born of the Void, a thing whose true nature is so awful most will not speak its name. Its fellows have been poking at the walls that divide dimensions for a crack, a way into Runeterra, where they can visit their own personal paradise of horror upon the world. They are called the Voidborn, creatures so ancient and terrible that they have been removed from history altogether. It is rumored that the Voidborn command vast armies of unspeakable creatures on other worlds, that they were once driven from Runeterra by powerful magic lost to antiquity. If such tales are true, then the rumors that follow must be equally true - that one day, the Voidborn will return. Even now, something dark stirs in Icathia. Cho'Gath, an alien creature of malice and violence, causes all but the most stalwart to cringe in fear. Cho'Gath even appears to feed on its predations, growing and swelling as it gorges itself. Worse yet, the creature is intelligent, perhaps greatly so, hinting at the sentient horror of the Void.

Tank

War was coming, and Galio could do nothing but watch as the Demacian soldiers prepared for it. He couldn’t say how long it had been since he last tasted magic. He’d been carried from the plinth many times before, only to return without getting a chance at life. But even when his body was still, his mind was always stirring. And it longed to fight. Galio could just make out the bristling rows of northern barbarians in the distance. Even with his senses dulled in this dreamlike state, he could tell their ranks were sloppy and undisciplined, pacing to and fro in eager anticipation of their Demacian foes. Galio had overheard talk of these wildmen many times, given their recent conquests. The fearful people of the city whispered that the Freljordians left none alive, and mounted the heads of their foes on enormous tusks from strange beasts... But the barbarians were of no interest to the colossus. His eyes found a bigger prize – a titanic shape, seeming almost as tall as the hills behind it. It moved ominously, heaving like the waves of a troubled sea, waiting to be unleashed. What is that? thought Galio, hopefully. I hope it fights. Beneath him, his Demacian comrades marched in precise synchronization, reciting a cadence, chanting away all thoughts but battle. To each other, they sounded confident in their victory, but to Galio, who had heard this song so many times before, their rhythms were less certain, more hesitant. They are not excited to battle this great beast. I will do it for them! Galio was filled with the urge to scoop up every one of these men in his arms and tell them it would be fine, that he would spring forth and chase the entire invading army back to its borders. But he couldn’t. His arms, legs, and claws were as cold and inert as the stone he was hewn from. He needed a catalyst, a powerful magical presence of some kind, to awaken from his living dream. I hope there’s a mage this time, he thought, gazing toward the horizon. Usually there isn’t. I hate it when there isn’t. His worry grew as he heard the snorts of exhaustion from the oxen pulling him. They numbered several dozen, and still had to be swapped out with fresh replacements every mile. For a brief moment, Galio thought they might all collapse, leaving him in the outer Demacian brambles while the humans had their fun. Then, at last, his cart came to a stop at the edge of the battlefield. He knew there would be no parley, no chance that the savage enemy would surrender. Galio could hear the clatter of his tiny human comrades locking shields, forming a solid wall of steel. But he knew that whatever the barbarians’ enormous beast was, it would surely cut right through the fine Demacian armaments. The two sides flew at one another, colliding in a flash of limbs and blades. Galio heard swords clashing, and axes meeting shields. Men from both armies were falling to their deaths in the mud. Brave voices that Galio knew well cried like children for their mothers. The soft heart of the stone giant began to quiver. Yet still he could not break his paralysis. Suddenly a shock of blinding purple seared through the fray, causing scores of Demacians to drop to their knees. Galio felt it then – that familiar sensation in his fingertips, like the noon sun warming cool alabaster. He could almost wiggle them... The flash came again, sapping the life from more heroic Demacian soldiers. Galio’s senses came to life with startling acuity, revealing the conflict in gruesome detail. The bodies of men in broken armor were strewn about the field in grotesque contortions. Many barbarians lay slain in pools of their own blood. And in the distance, behind their lines, their cowardly sorcerer was summoning a crackling orb between his hands, readying his next attack. There he is. He is the reason I wake, Galio realized, first in gratitude, then in rage. I will squash him first! But his attention was once again drawn to the monstrous shape in the farthest reaches of the battlefield. Finally, it was coming into focus: A towering behemoth of a creature – covered in thick, matted fur. It struggled against the steel chains that restrained it. Its head thrashed about viciously in an attempt to free itself from the giant blinding cowl that covered its eyes. Galio smiled. Now that is a foe worthy of my fists. The barbarians pulled off the behemoth’s covering, revealing a snarling, mangled snout beneath a beady pair of jet-black eyes. Free from its blinders, the creature erupted in a fearsome roar, as if declaring itself ready to ravage everything in sight. The monster’s handlers released a mechanism that let loose the chains, and the behemoth threw itself into the opposing infantry, instantly slaying a dozen Demacians with just one swipe of a saber-like claw. Galio was horrified. These were men he had guarded since they were children. He wanted to weep for them, as he had seen humans do in mourning. But he was not built for that. He focused on his purpose and the thrill of the fight that awaited. This was a huge, terrible beast, and he couldn’t wait to put his hands on it. He could feel the vitality of life returning to him. Yes! At last! The sensation shot through his arms, his head, and all the way to his legs. For the first time in a century, he could move. Across the valley a sound echoed, something not heard in living memory. It was the sound of a stone giant’s laughter. Galio leapt into the fray, knocking aside the barbarians’ crudely built siege engines. Friend and foe alike stopped to gape at the stone titan who was now smashing his way through the front lines. Like a living monument, he burst from the press of soldiers and threw himself into the path of the rampaging behemoth. “Hello, great beast,” he rumbled. “Shall I smash you?” The creature threw its mighty head back and howled, as if in acknowledgment of the challenge. Both titans ran toward one another with earth-shaking force. The behemoth slammed into Galio’s mid-section with its shoulder, and let out a groan of intense pain as it crumpled to the ground clutching its collarbone. Galio stood above it, reluctant to smash a prostrate opponent. “Come now, no need to feel bad,” said Galio, eagerly motioning with his hand. “That was a good try. Now hit me again.” The monster slowly pulled itself to its feet and regained the angry glint in its eye. It struck Galio with all its might, its claws raking away a piece of his head. “You broke my crown,” said the colossus, pleasantly surprised, encouraged by the hope of a competitive fight. He struck at the beast with the bottom of his hand, swinging it down like a club with every ounce of his stone frame. The petricite fist collided with the behemoth’s flesh, and the surrounding field rang out with the cracking of gigantic bones. The monster staggered, screaming and swinging blindly, but connecting with nothing. Galio grabbed the giant beast around the waist in his monolithic arms and wrenched its torso, trying to break its spine. But the behemoth twisted out of his grip, and began to circle him warily before backing away. “Wait! Our battle must be resolved!” bellowed the colossus. He started to lumber after the beast, hoping it would reconsider its decision to flee. But the faint cries of his Demacian brethren carried to him on the wind. Without realizing, Galio had followed the monster for hundreds of feet, straying from the heart of the battle. He wanted to fight the creature, but his human comrades needed him. As the abomination limped away into the distance, Galio gave it one last wistful gaze. “Farewell, great beast.” He turned and thundered back to his comrades. More than half of them were lying on the ground in agony, tortured by unseen coils of power. He knew at once it was the same magic that kept him living. The stone titan saw the terror in the soldiers’ faces, before turning to the malevolent sorcerer once more. Galio knew what he must do, and what the consequences would be. He leapt high in the air and then came crashing down onto the mage, interrupting his vile incantation, and squashing the barbarian into the loam. The remaining invaders were routed, dropping their arms in terror and fleeing in all directions. As the sorcerer’s magic faded, Galio felt conflicted. The animating force was draining from his body. He’d saved countless lives, but he was being dragged back to slumber. He didn’t understand why he had no magic of his own, like all living things must have. Why had he been made this way? Had that even been his creator’s intention? As he felt the cold embrace of his dormancy returning, he took comfort that life itself was magical, and if Galio only experienced it briefly, it was worth it. Until the final day. Until he would come to break the world’s last mage in his unyielding fists, and the stone sentinel of Demacia would awaken no more.

Tank

General Miesar slid an ivory cone across the map. Jarvan wondered at the simplicity of the white piece. No head, no features denoting a face. Just a simple rounded shape, neutral and plain, with no resemblance to the hundred Demacian soldiers it represented. “If we lead our knights south now, we can attack the argoth head-on before they reach Evenmoor,” said General Ibell, a stout woman with commanding eyes. “The argoth are fiercest in swarms,” said General Miesar as he paced the length of the tent. “They rely on overwhelming numbers to defeat direct attacks. If we cannot divide them, they will slaughter us long before we reach their queen.” Jarvan strode to the edge of their tent, parting the fabric and gazing out across the valley. He might have enjoyed the view – morning light made the verdant landscape sparkle with dew, and the village of Evenmoor looked peaceful from a distance. But an ominous gray shape swelled on the horizon as the horde thundered in the distance. The argoth were not enormous creatures; fighting one alone would be easy enough, but in large numbers, they were subject to the dominating will of a queen, able to move and fight as one vicious unit. This swarm was bigger than any Jarvan had seen before. Miesar wiped sweat from his brow. “They’ll be here by this evening?” “Sooner,” said Ibell. “We have an hour, maybe two if we’re lucky, until the argoth overwhelm Evenmoor.” Jarvan turned back to the map. Ten ebony cones representing the argoth stood at the outer edges of Evenmoor, overshadowing the single Demacian cone. The queen was marked by a smaller figurine of red jasper, right in the heart of the ebony mass. “Any charge would need to fight through hundreds of argoth to get near her,” said Jarvan, gesturing to the red stone. “What do you propose?” Miesar halted his pacing. “I’m afraid you won’t like this, my lord, but we could retreat. Surrender Evenmoor. Return on the morrow with forces strong enough to cut through the horde and slay the queen.” “Leave Evenmoor to the argoth?” asked Ibell. “That’s a death sentence for these people. They will be overrun in a matter of hours.” Jarvan stared at the ebony and ivory until they merged in his mind’s eye. All he saw was the red queen stone. Ibell raised her eyebrows. “You see something?” “A desperate plan,” Jarvan replied, “but it is all we have. We conceal our fiercest fighters within Evenmoor and lay an ambush. With such a small band they won’t anticipate our attack. Then, when the queen is within reach, we strike hard and fast. With her death, the swarm’s unity will be broken.” “Into the center of the argoth, my lord?” Miesar said. “That, too, may be a death sentence.” “But we give Evenmoor a chance of surviving the attack,” said Ibell. “No plan is without risk,” Jarvan said. “I will lead only those willing to join me, and will not engage until our hope of victory is greatest. We bide our time until the eye of the maelstrom is upon us, and then strike from within. With the queen dead, it will be a simple matter to fight our way out.” Ibell slid a single ivory cone to the village on the map, then moved the circle of ebony pieces forward until they overlapped Evenmoor entirely. The jasper queen stood at its center. With a flick of her finger, she tipped the red stone over. That done, she slid two more white cones to join the fight. “This is our plan,” said Jarvan. “Ibell and Miesar, you and your troops will lead the second wave.” “Aye,” said Miesar. “And you, my lord?” Ibell asked. “Where will you be?” “I have a queen to kill,” Jarvan replied.

Tank

K’Sante wipes his forehead, his bloodied fingers catching sweat and dirt. He stands with his back hunched, and wounds fresh, but still towers over the tensome attackers surrounding him. Beside them, fallen bodies lie baking in the Shuriman heat—all crazed followers of the Ascended who’ve been seeking K’Sante’s death. The remaining zealots raise their swords. K’Sante sees glints of light on their blades. He knows the sun is watching overhead, its gaze awaiting his next move. He entertains the thought of dying here and spits on the ground. It was a simple ambush. He hadn’t become the Pride of Nazumah just to perish in the very savanna where his ancestors had overcome even grander foes. These were raiders at best—lost in some deranged sorcerer’s delusions of conquest. The zealots holler and charge, shrublands echoing the rumble of their feet. K’Sante watches their movements. There’s no strategy here—only bloodlust. He grits his teeth, and, despite his battered legs, a bruised chest, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, braces himself. Metal clashes against metal. K’Sante’s ntofos block a lethal slash. He growls as he pushes against the zealot’s blade, the weight of his own weapons working in his favor. K’Sante had constructed them with that in mind, their hefty rectangular structure built from cobra-lion armor—one of the strongest materials in all of Shurima. A zealot sneaks in with a sword and slices K’Sante’s cheek. He grunts from the pain and shoves his ntofos into the foe he’s blocking, causing them to collapse, then swings his weapons in an arc, striking the zealot who’d cut him. He chuckles. Somehow, slaying a Baccai seems easier now than fending off wave after wave of the Ascended’s zealots. “Kill the nonbeliever!” cry his enemies. “The Magus demands it!” K’Sante has many words he wishes to say about Xerath, but telling the Magus’ followers would be a waste. They’ll soon join their companions, unable to pass on any messages, and he’d rather speak to Xerath himself to let the Magus know it was he who slayed the Baccai abomination. To think the Magus, a self-declared “god,” would create a cobra-lion to terrorize innocent people... K’Sante’s stomach churns in disgust. His people, his culture—they are his pride. And, unfortunately for the Magus’ followers, that pride fuels his survival. Eyes forward, he grips his weapons tighter as his enemies push their assault. The zealots plunge toward him, attacking from all angles. How many are there? Four, five, six? His vision fades in and out—maybe due to heat, maybe due to exhaustion—and he steps forward, but his right knee buckles beneath him. Using his ntofos, he steadies himself and blocks strikes from above and below. His enemies are piling against him, now. They must think he’s hit his limit. Hardly. With a roar, he knocks them back and hefts himself onto his feet again. But before he can retaliate, three arrows fall from the sky and land dead center in three zealots’ throats. Stunned, K’Sante watches his foes stagger and gasp for air before toppling over. “Take them out!” a voice commands. K’Sante turns, seeing a tall, armored warrior wielding a bow and leading three other archers, each nocking fresh arrows. They wear matching patterns of green and gold, but the leader’s face is hidden behind an ornate mask. “Worry not, Nazuman,” the leader says. “We are no friends of the Ascended.” K’Sante glances at the arrows stuck in the dead zealots’ bodies. “I see that.” The leader laughs. His voice is warm and rich and somehow familiar. K’Sante can’t see the man’s face, yet is reassured. The zealots rush once more while K’Sante’s unexpected allies gather together. “Ready, Nazuman?” the leader asks. “Always.” K’Sante slams down his ntofos. The ground before him ruptures, sending cracks rippling through the dirt and gravel surging upward from the impact, which knocks back the foes closest to K’Sante. The ntofos’ outer layers shatter. Their now-exposed centers shimmer in the sun, revealing twin obsidian blades. K’Sante reverses his grip and aims the sharpened edges ahead. He knows he only has a brief time before his weapons regenerate their defensive coating. K’Sante leaps forward. Mustering all his strength, he uses his momentum to spin midair, heaving one leg across his front to land a devastating roundhouse kick on three of his foes. As they tumble back, he lands with a thud and slices his ntofos across their chests, tearing through armor and flesh. The zealots scream. K’Sante’s allies roar. A hail of arrows falls around him, blocking the zealots who’ve flanked to his sides. “Take no prisoners!” the leader declares. K’Sante nods. Red runs down his face—whether it’s his blood or his enemies, he isn’t sure. With clenched teeth and furrowed brow, he pushes ahead, thrusting his blades into the hearts of his enemies. One by one, they fall. When the dust settles, the zealots lie still, finally among their previously fallen companions. “It is over,” the leader observes, satisfied. “Yes,” K’Sante says. “For now.” He stands upright, but just barely, his face and body stained crimson. The ntofos in his hands begin to regenerate as he stares at the lifeless zealots’ bodies. “You haven’t changed one bit, K’Sante,” the leader says. K’Sante looks up. Mask now in hand, a smiling face looks back. It's an expression K’Sante assumed he’d never see from this man—from Tope—ever again. “I’m sure you have questions. But for now, come with us.” Tope gestures loosely into the distance with his hand. “Our camp is nearby, and you look dreadful.” K’Sante can’t stifle his strained breathing. Even though he’s unsure, the idea of rest is too enticing. K’Sante nods slowly and takes a step closer, but the world spins around him, and he collapses to the ground. When K’Sante wakes, he’s lying on a wooden bed beneath soft blankets. He runs his fingers along the verdant threads, feeling their gentle, sinewy fibers—a trademark of Marrowmarkan fabric. The tent overhead shields him from the sun’s heat, but he can still hear the bustling camp outside its walls. Iron being forged, steel being hammered—sounds that remind him of his own weapons. K’Sante quickly scans his surroundings and, to his relief, sees his now fully regenerated ntofos leaning against the bedpost, polished and cleaned. He studies the cobra-lion inlay along their sides, images he carved and painted himself based on some of Tope’s old drawings. He wonders if Tope noticed. Would he say something, even if he did? What if Tope made the wrong assumption? That was years ago, after all. K’Sante tries to remember. Exactly how long has it been? “Two whole days,” a voice says. “You were out like a baby armordillo.” Dressed in a Marrowmarkman tunic of greens and golds, Tope stands by the entrance of K’Sante’s tent, his arms crossed. Seeing his grin, K’Sante offers a half-smile in return. “No mask today?” K’Sante asks, sitting up. “We both know, had I not been wearing a mask, you wouldn’t have let me help with those zealots.” K’Sante opens his mouth to protest, only to close it again with a sigh. Despite his recent efforts to curb his more audacious tendencies, he knows there’s still truth in that statement. “Word spreads fast,” Tope explains. “Over the past few months, the Ascended forces have encroached farther south. I expected them to be by the savanna. And I expected Nazumah to send its finest. What I didn’t expect was to see you. Just you. Fighting twenty-plus of their soldiers.” “I thought I could take them.” K’Sante stumbles out of bed. He grabs his armor from beside his weapons and grunts as he puts it on, his body aching everywhere. “Of course you did,” Tope mutters under his breath. “And I’m sure you would have.” He shakes his head. “Well, if you can walk, you can eat. Why don’t you thank me over lunch? I won’t have the Pride of Nazumah returning home on an empty stomach.” K’Sante gingerly follows Tope out of the tent. Before him, the camp stretches wide. Warriors spar and restring bows, and among them are some faces he recognizes from Tope’s rescue party. Nearby, chefs stir various cast-iron pots. K’Sante smells something comforting and familiar wafting out from one of them: Cassava, yams, and cornmeal. And from another, tomatoes, onions, goat meat, and peppers over rice. Tope pulls a couple chairs up to an open table. A young man wearing armor two sizes too large rushes over with filled glasses. “Palm wine?” Tope offers. K’Sante is tempted. It is the favorite drink of his home. But, he passes. He wishes to keep his mind sound for wherever this conversation might lead. “Water,” he answers. “Please.” Tope beams at the attendant. “You heard the man.” The young man scurries off. “So,” K’Sante asks, “what do they call you here?” “King or Lord, mostly,” Tope says, face static. K’Sante hesitates. Tope slaps the table with a grin. “I’m joking! You think, after all these years, I’d crown myself like a mad Ascended?” “I don’t dare guess what your aunty might think,” K’Sante says. “Oh, that woman would have me disowned,” Tope assures. “Publicly—so our ancestors would not be offended,” he explains in his aunty’s voice. K’Sante chuckles. “That’s no joke.” Tope continues, chuckling in tandem. “Your parents would do the same.” He pours water for K’Sante and himself as the attendant returns with two plates of food. K’Sante’s stomach growls at the sight of peppered rice, dyed bright orange by spices, with fiery scents steaming off its top. “Please,” Tope says. “Dig in.” As K’Sante eats, he examines Tope and the surrounding camp. Everyone here seems happy, even amid warfare. Laughter travels from nearby people exchanging battlefield tales. Men and women come and go, offering their well-wishes as they jog between stations. The atmosphere is busy and driven, but whenever Tope asks for more food and drink, it’s delivered without complaint. “Looks like you’ve made it,” K’Sante observes. Tope sips his wine. He then raises an arm and motions to the rest of the camp with a sweep of his hand. “Yes, leading my own band of fools. So far, no one’s removed me from command. Can you believe it?” “You’re too stubborn for that.” “Does the cheetah call the leopard spotted?” Both men smile. K’Sante notices the roughened edges on Tope’s face—marks of age and a few scars. Are they new? Or were they part of what he failed to notice before? K’Sante searches for something. Anger, sadness, pain? His body stiffens with guilt. He continues to eat and glances around the camp, the busy clamor filling the pause in their conversation. “Commander,” Tope says. “That’s what they’re supposed to call me. I don’t like it, so I command them not to.” “At least you’re not the Pride of Marrowmark,” K’Sante says. “Ha! That title always fit you better than it did me. Say, I hear there’s going to be a celebration in your name?” K’Sante humbles himself. “Uh, yes. At Hunter’s Hall in Nazumah.” Tope looks impressed. “Right where we used to train. That’s fantastic! Your mother and father—I assume they’re going?” “I couldn’t drag them away.” “I would like to see you try.” K’Sante chuckles. “When is it?” Tope asks. K’Sante swallows another bite of peppered rice. “It’s next month. The first weekend.” “Oh, right around my wedding!” Tope chirps cheerfully. K’Sante wavers, searching for words. Quickly, he smiles. “Congratulations!” “Thank you,” Tope smiles back, unaware of K’Sante’s fluster. “Looks like we’ll both miss each other’s special occasions.” K’Sante chuckles again. After all these years, Tope still has his wit. That’s what had attracted him to Tope in the first place. How, in their interactions, there was always laughter. On hunts, at dinner, in bed. The timeless parts of their romance were the joys they shared. K’Sante misses it. And yet, he knows it was the right choice for them to separate. That final cobra-lion hunt—it broke them. They were young. They were strong. And they couldn’t agree on anything. That’s the funny thing about pride. Sometimes, it reveals the worst version of your best self. Out of all the things K’Sante expected, the last was this meal with the man sitting across from him. But he isn’t unprepared. Years ago, he had promised himself that should this day happen, there would be no blame. The past was the past. In fact, he’s more curious now about the present and the future. K’Sante stares up from his food. “How did you two meet?” “Ah, funny story,” Tope responds. “I met him at school.” “School?” “Yes,” Tope says, then pauses. “After the cobra-lion, I went back to Marrowmark. Back to school. You know that I always loved studying the intricacies of combat. So, I took a couple years to learn everything, such as strategies from faraway cultures. Noxus, Demacia, and those cold, sad warriors in the Freljord.” K’Sante feigns surprise. “And that was enough to convince them to make you commander?” He exhales through closed teeth with exaggerated gravity. “War really does make people desperate.” Tope snickers. “I’m glad you’ve not lost your humor.” He leans back in his chair. “We’ve both come far, K’Sante,” Tope observes. “From two young hunters with... What did they used to call us? All talent, no discipline?” K’Sante nods. “Now we’re some talent with some discipline... sometimes.” Tope laughs, loud and free. K’Sante is reminded of the warmth of that booming sound—how Tope always made those around him feel accepted. K’Sante sighs, relaxes his shoulders, and, for the first time during this meal, he too leans back against his chair. “You know, I never got the chance to say this,” Tope begins, “probably because I didn’t believe it back then, but now... I'll regret it if I don’t. So here goes.” K’Sante watches Tope pick at his nails before he continues. “I’m sorry,” Tope finally says, sitting up tall. “I didn’t support you back then. During the cobra-lion battle, I mean. At least, not the way you wanted. I hadn’t realized what it meant for you to—” “No,” K’Sante interjects. He’s thought about this conversation many times over. A few years ago, it was the only thing he could think about. Rehashing what he felt, and why. Then, later on, it started to come up less frequently and felt more like a lesson. A reminder of how their relationship had evolved him, and how it allowed him to finally acknowledge the damage his pride could do. It took him even longer to understand that, even now, his pride is a force—one that drives off others and turns tides in battle. In love, it is... not so different. Killing enemies is straightforward. Resolving conflicts is not. These days, K’Sante hasn’t thought about this conversation much, if at all. Again, he certainly hadn’t expected to be having it now, but all those years spent thinking about it allows him to say what comes next. “No,” K’Sante repeats firmly, and sits forward. “I hurt you.” He exhales. “Yes, the cobra-lion was damning. And yes, it meant everything to me to slay it—to prove that I could be Nazumah’s greatest warrior. But I didn’t need to do it in a way that belittled you. In fact, I used your notes. You discovered it was Baccai. That’s what allowed me to finish what we had started. For that, I’m grateful.” K’Sante looks down at their plates, both half-eaten. A sign of deep conversation. His eyes rise to meet Tope’s. “I could’ve been a better partner to you, too. And for that, I’m sorry. I truly am.” He senses the cool desert air on his skin as he watches Tope’s face soften. The sun must’ve set. When it dropped from the sky, he can’t recall. He takes a breath and smiles. “But you should also thank me.” “Oh?” Tope says, amused. He sips his wine as he considers K’Sante. “And why’s that?” “By doing what I did, it seems I’ve helped you in both your career and your love life.” Wine spurts from Tope’s nose. He throws his head back, howling with laughter. It’s contagious. The merry sounds of both men intertwine with nearby campfire songs and dance. “That pride of yours,” Tope says, “has never truly gone away.” Smiling and sighing, he wipes droplets of wine off the table. “It is your greatest strength, and I, for one, think the Nazumans are lucky to have you. In times like these, there is no better Pride of Nazumah.” K’Sante sits back and enjoys the wide, open evening sky. He had imagined this conversation going a million different ways. Seeing Tope’s success, hearing his acceptance, and feeling his maturity—coupled with K’Sante’s own growth—is a relief. He grabs the pitcher of palm wine and pours himself a glass. “And no better commander of Marrowmark.” “Then let us toast,” Tope declares. “Ascended, empires, or beasts—” “None shall threaten our homes while we still stand!”

Tank

The raiders attacked before dawn; fifty wolf-lean men in iron hauberks mantled with strange furs and bearing ash-dulled axes. Their steps were swift as they entered the settlement at the foot of the mountain. These were men who had fought as brothers for years, who lived in the heartbeat between life and death. A warrior in battered scale armor and bearing a heavy-bladed greatsword over his shoulder led them. Beneath his dragon-helm, his face was bearded and raw, burned by a lifetime of war-making under a harsher sun than this. The previous settlements had been easily overcome; little challenge for men weaned on battle. The spoils were few and far between, but in this strange land, a man took what he could get. This one would be no different. Sudden light flared ahead, sunlight gleaming brightly. Impossible. Dawn was an hour or more away. The leader raised a callused hand as he saw a lone figure standing athwart the settlement’s street. He grinned as he saw it was a woman. Finally, something worth plundering. Light enflamed her, and the grin fell from his face as he stepped closer and saw she was clad in ornate warplate. Auburn hair spilled from a golden circlet and sunlight glinted from her heavy shield and long-bladed sword. More warriors emerged from the street, taking their place to either side of the woman, each gold-armored and bearing a long spear. “These lands are under my protection,” she said. Leona lifted her sword as the twelve warriors of the Ra-Horak formed a wedge with her at their center. Six to either side, they swung their shields and hammered them down as one. Leona made a quarter turn and locked her own shield into place at the apex. Her sword slid into the thrust groove beneath the shield’s bladed halo. She flexed her fingers on the leather-wound grip of her sword, feeling the surge-tide of power within her. A coiled fire that ached to be released. Leona held it within her, letting it ease into her flesh. Embers flecked her eyes and her heart pounded in her chest. The being she had joined with atop the mountain longed to burn these men with its cleansing fire. Dragon-helm is the key. Kill him and the rest will falter. Part of Leona wanted to give the power in her free reign; wanted to scorch these men to smoldering bone and ash. Their attacks had killed scores of people who called the lands around Mount Targon home. They had defiled the sacred places of the Solari, toppling sacred sun stones and polluting the mountain springs with their excretions. Dragon-helm laughed and swung his greatsword from his shoulders as his men moved away from him. To fight with such a huge weapon and keep it in constant motion needed space. He yelled something in a guttural tongue that sounded more like animal barks than anything human, and his warriors gave an answering roar. Leona let out a hot breath as the raiders charged, their braided beards flecked with frothed spittle as they pounded toward the Ra-Horak. Leona let the fire into her blood, feeling the ancient creature merge its essence with hers more completely, becoming one with her senses and gifting her with perceptions not of this world. Time slowed for Leona. She saw the pulsing glow of each enemy’s heart and heard the thunderous drum-beat of their blood. To her, their bodies were hazed with the red fires of battle-lust. Dragon-helm leapt forward, his sword hammering Leona’s shield like a stone titan’s fist. The impact was ferocious, buckling the metal and driving her back a full yard. The Ra-Horak stepped back with her, keeping the shieldwall unbroken. Leona’s shield blazed with light and Dragon-helm’s mantle of fur smoldered in its furnace heat. His eyes widened in surprise as he hauled his enormous sword back for another strike. “Brace and thrust!” she yelled as the rest of the raiders hit their line. Golden spears thrust at the instant of impact and the first rank of attackers fell with their bellies pierced by mountain-forged steel. They were trampled underfoot as the warriors behind them pressed the attack. The shieldwall buckled, but held. Axes smashed down, sinews swelled and throats grunted with the effort of attack. Leona thrust her sword through the neck of a raider with a scar bisecting his face from crown to jaw. He screamed and fell back, his throat filling with blood. Her shield slammed into the face of the man next to him, caving in his skull. The Ra-Horak’s line bent back as Dragon-helm’s sword slammed down again, this time splintering the shield of the warrior next to her. The man dropped, cloven from neck to pelvis. Leona didn’t give Dragon-helm the chance for a third strike. She thrust her golden sword toward him and a searing echo of its image blazed from the rune-cut blade. White-hot fire engulfed Dragon-helm, his furs and hair instantly igniting and his armor fusing to his flesh like a brand. He shrieked in hideous pain, and Leona felt the cosmic power inside her revel in the man’s agony. He staggered backward, somehow still alive and screaming as her fire melted the flesh from his bones. His men faltered in their assault as he fell to his knees as a blazing pyre. “Into them!” shouted Leona, and the Ra-Horak surged forward. Powerful arms stabbed spear blades with brutal efficiency. Thrust, twist, withdraw. Over and over again like the relentless arms of a threshing machine. The raiders turned and fled from the Ra-Horak’s blood-wetted blades, horrified at their war-leader’s doom. Now they sought only to escape. How and why these raiders had come to Targon was a mystery, for they had clearly not come to bear witness on the mountain nor make an ascent. They were warriors, not pilgrims, and left alive they would only regroup to kill again. Leona could not allow that and thrust her sword into the earth. She reached deep inside herself, drawing on the awesome power from beyond the mountain. The sun emerged from behind its highest peaks as Leona thrust her hand to the light. She dropped to one knee and slammed her fist on the ground. And sunfire rained from the sky.

Tank

The chill wind whips through cracks in my bark with a hollow whistling sound. I shiver. My limbs have long forgotten the warmth of summer. The towering shapes around me fracture and fall in the gale. The lives within died long ago; now they are my silent companions. Their brittle trunks remain only as empty husks, rough gray sketches of the lush forest that once bloomed here. A spirit weaves between the trees in front of me, pale and spectral against the night air. A knot tightens in my bark. Normally I would lash my roots through its heart, but today I hold still, trying not to alert the wraith to my presence. I am tired of resisting. That I exist at all is an act of defiance against the curse plaguing these lands. Its moonlike eyes are vacant. There is nothing alive and vulnerable to fuel its cold bitterness on this isle of death, nothing to be hunted or consumed. The spirit slips between the trees, leaving me to my solitude. I look across the forest of shadows and my branches waver. My gaze catches – a tiny flame of red growing amid the endless gray. Nestled in a mound of black dirt, the smallest flower bud pushes up from the ground, its petals so bright they burn my eyes. It is a nightbloom. Long ago, they carpeted the floor of the Blessed Isles, blossoming on the evening of the summer solstice. By morning the flowers wilted, leaving only blackened petals, not to be seen again until the following year. But for one night, they illuminated the forest with blazing crimson, as if the very ground were aflame. I look around and, for a fleeting moment, hope that if one flower exists there might be others. But there is only the somber gray of these dead isles. My boughs creak as I take a shaky step forward. I approach the bloom, transfixed, crushing ashen leaves to dust underfoot. My colossal frame towers over its delicate shape. I lean down until my face is inches above the sweet-scented petals. The potent groundwater within my heartwood stirs, awakening in recognition. Life. The flower’s neck is tilted as if curious. Deep vermillion veins spread across each petal, and its pale green stem is coated with hundreds of silvery, velvet-soft hairs. I could spend eternity basking in its every facet. Every moment it grows and shifts in subtle ways; its stem pushing ever higher while its petals slowly unfurl. I am enchanted by each movement, however minute. I watch as the bloom spreads to reveal the filaments extending from within, its heady scent flooding my mind with color. For a moment I forget the cold, the hollow wind, and my own bitterness. A pale light flickers and I flinch. A glowing shape approaches. My bark tingles. Nothing from these bloodless woods is an ally. The cursed spirit is returning, attracted to the lure of movement. Life is not so still as death. I flex my limbs in fury, no longer eluding violence. I welcome it. For one night, a living thing will exist on these barren isles unmarred by corrupt forces. The spirit glides toward us. She was once human, but is now translucent and bone-white. Her blank expression grows ravenous as she sees the blood-red blossom. The specter races toward the flower and tries to inhale its fragile life. Before the bloom withers into a lifeless shade, I fling my limbs forward and lash them about the spirit’s legs. She screeches, recoiling as if burned, and I roar. The groundwater within me is anathema to such unnatural beings. She twists and breaks free of my grasp. I hoist my roots and smash them to the ground. The impact splits the barren topsoil and sends shockwaves through the earth. The reverberations strike the wraith and she reels in agony. I laugh bitterly. As she stirs, I sling my limbs through her form and she dissolves. Dusky mist rises from the ground, accompanied by a foul stench. As the wind moans, dozens of spirits materialize before me, their garish faces gaping silently at the scene before them. The nightbloom and I grow before the wall of shadows. I will not let them destroy this one pure thing amongst so much darkness. I throw all my rage into my blows, driving them back with furious strength. I cannot destroy every spirit on the isles, but I can hold them off for a time. A wraith tries to dart past me. I howl as I lift my roots to pierce its heart, and it dissipates into mist. My strength is draining with so many spirits nearby, but I refuse to concede. The flower grows brightly beneath the moonlight, oblivious to this battle for its very existence. A single crimson petal falls from its perfect blossom like a drop of blood. The lifecycle of the bloom is near its end, bringing death, and with it, respite. But I do not crave it. I feel I could cleanse the entire island of its scourge in my fury. The cursed mist has risen above the treeline and swirls in great clouds. An endless host of spirits pours from the fog, mouths agape with ghoulish hunger. I rise to my greatest height and slam my limbs into the ravenous spirits, shattering one after another into dust. Still, more come. I howl as I stir the air into a crudely twisting spiral, and nourish the storm with my wrath until it expands in a tempestuous whirlwind. I revel in the chaos as the maelstrom surges in a frenzied circle around me and the flower. It blasts the spirits violently back beyond the trees. From within this nightmare, I have carved a sanctuary where life can grow. I turn to the flower. We are silent together at the eye of the storm, still amidst the madness. A second fiery petal falls from the nightbloom, then another. My energy drains into the maelstrom, but I do not falter and the tempest rages on. With each passing moment, the blossom droops further until it faces the ground. It is perfect in its slow, natural decay. I cannot look away as it gradually loses its crown of flaming petals and wilts completely. It is dead. I lower my branches and the maelstrom quiets. Above me, the sky is slate gray - as bright as it ever gets in this grim place. The gloom of the mist encroaches once more and the spirits return. Their faces are blank, no longer sensing the illicit life of the nightbloom, no longer anticipating the joy of a fresh kill. They retreat into the hollow woods. I whip my roots through a specter as it passes me, scattering its essence into the fading mist. The others edge farther away from me as they return to their gloom. Though the land appears unchanged, these isles are not the same gray wasteland they were yesterday. The waters of life stir within me and the soil beneath my roots is fertile again. Though its petals decay into dust, the luminous nightbloom burns fire-bright in my mind, igniting my fury. Just as these islands were born of burning rock, I will cleanse them of their pestilence in a flaming blaze. I follow the trailing spirits as they slip between hollow trees. They will pay for their wickedness.

Tank

I wake up suddenly, like a story that starts in the middle of the action. The song. I heard it! “Willump!” I shout. “I heard the song again! Wake up!” I shove aside the snow that serves as our blanket and look my flufferific friend in the face. His whiskers are twitching like they can feel my dream slowly fading. He growls, and his breath swirls into all kindsa shapes. But even though he’s old and has hair in his earholes, still, he’s my best friend! I laugh as his beard tickles my nose. Nothing like a magical yeti to bring me back to reality! Willump rolls over and starts scratching his grumbling belly. “You’re always thinking about food,” I laugh again. Laughing feels good, it helps me remember. My mom… We’ve been following her song across the Freljord—my mom’s heart-song. Everywhere we’ve ever been, she made a verse, and if I could only remember what each place was, I could find my way back to her. I could save her, like a hero in her stories! But I can only remember parts of the song when I’m not trying, and sometimes… it’s like my mom is out there, singing. Like that! Did you hear that?! “It’s coming from that village,” I bellow, pointing towards a patch of darkness beneath a frozen waterfall. Something inside me knows that’s where the song came from. “Sword first, Willump, I’ll cut through the wind!” I shiver as we enter the clearing a few moments later, though I’m surrounded by scrazzly fur. Even this close, the village is mostly shadows. There are no people—if there were, I’d know, ‘cause it’s so cold I’d see their breath. “What is this place?” I ask. Willump growls wisely. “‘Naljaäg’? That can’t be its name. How would anyone know how to spell that?” Then Willump grumbles that it’s the yeti word for “stone.” The buildings are stones heaped really high, the pathways are stones, too. Stones. Got it. So… it’s not weird that the flowers are carved out of stone, right? And those furs, hanging over a door. And that old rope! At least, it would be rope if it wasn’t hard and gray. “Is everything around here stones?” I ask. It’s not fair—in the stories, stones at least have runes carved into them or something. I’m starting to wonder why the song led me here, when finally I see a person, their back turned beneath an archway! “My name is Nunu, and I’m here to help!” I yell, and I pull at the person’s shoulder—but when they topple into the light with a dull thwunk, I immediately realize… they’re stone, too! And… Beyond the archway are all the missing people from the village, huddled together like statues. There’s one who looks like a warrior, now dull and gray. There’s a farmer and his wife, holding each other tightly, like they were carved from one slab. A little girl, a pebble beside them. It’s a curse. A real one. “Willump,” I say. “We gotta do something!” That’s the thing about mom’s songs. My favorites were always tales of heroes, more than a match for any curse. With the lessons I learned, we can save these people, right? I have to believe, otherwise… how am I gonna save her? I remember one song, a myth about how Avarosa healed the turtle that carries the sea, by giving it a big kiss! But I don’t want my first kiss to be a statue. I make Willump kiss ’em just in case, and watch as the stone gets stuck to his fur. I try saying the prayers Lissandra taught me, just in case. I make a dragon out of snow to scare the curse away, like Anivia did to fight the southern army! I even try pulling the sun closer, like how Braum thawed his village in the song my mom sang. But the sun’s too far. Braum must have really long arms. Willump tries to comfort me. He says some curses can’t be fought. Sometimes, heroes don’t win. But I remember what matters. I can feel it, even though my mom is missing, our caravan buried in snow. The feeling of being loved. That’s what this village deserves! “If we can’t help these people,” I tell Willump, “then we’re gonna help these statues!” I smile and reach for my flute. I mean, my sword! Svellsongur! Hero time, hah! I can smell the curse. A hateful stench, like troll. It has the weight of centuries; weight that could grind the years this child has left down to mere days. Here is where even heroes of song would question how they could fight, blades powerless against ancient magic. But Nunu is no mere hero. He is something better. He is a boy! He whoops, and calls my attention to the frozen waterfall above us. We are close enough now that we can see them, nestled atop stillness. Krugs. Stone creatures animated by magic, more than at home living above a village such as this one. Their nest has dammed the waters’ flow, holding back the Freljord’s lifeblood. I taste a hint of Nunu’s intentions. It tastes like krugs. Delicious. “Hey, stoney crabs! You took something from those statues!” Nunu yells, and hops onto my back without losing a beat, for the music is in his heart. The magic is his now. Swept up in his imagination, snow forms before us, gradually taking shape into a mighty snowball! I laugh as we ramble wildly, our merry burden growing so large that beneath us the village trembles, buildings stretching themselves awake. And still the snowball grows larger. The krugs make only a tiny chitter as we leap into the air to the top of the waterfall, blotting out the sun. The Freljord goes white, the dam embraced by snow even as it’s torn apart. And then, the earth roars. Icicles crack like bones made brittle by winter. The roar grows louder as the river coughs and clears dust from its throat, water tumbling into the village below. “Did you see that, Willump?!” Nunu asks. But my eyes are already closed. I can feel a magic more powerful than the curse welling up to fill the village, casting shivers through my fur and bringing warmth to a world that is cold. It is the only magic that can save the Freljord. Even the frozen dreams of my people, coveted by the Frostguard, pale in comparison to this magic, held in abundance by a child. Hope. His arms are around me now, and I hug him back with all four limbs, looking away so he does not see the snowflakes falling from my eyes. The curse has not lifted. But still, life has returned. And as it spreads, stone flowers washing away to make room for living ones, what curse could stand in its way? No evil can last, if life embraces joy, and refuses to hide… I reach onto the ground and pick up a chunk of ice, crushing it to snow between my paws. “Hey!” Nunu yells as I hit him in the face with a snowball, trailing the magic that swirls in his heart. As we play, the wind whips through the flute on Nunu’s back, casting up stray notes. Then I finally hear it, too. Her song. Where waters Once roared, Winds whisper To stone. In shadow, Naljaäg lies. Silence sings. Hope survives.

Tank

No one knew who lit the fire, but we saw the plume of smoke from far away. The Winter’s Claw had driven our tribe north, where the land was so harsh that even our warmother Olgavanna shivered through the first night. Our elnuk herd died on the second. At least we had food for the third. But even that feast was a memory as we climbed the mountain with no peak. Legless Kriek called it “the Half-Mountain of Old Ornn.” Our shaman had lost his mind, but Olgavanna bade us carry the fool. He had convinced her that our survival lay at the source of that mysterious smoke. The rest of us believed we were marching to our doom. The slopes of the half-mountain were a tortured landscape of black stone. We found the ruins of a forgotten city shown on no map—now just a maze of charred foundations. Kriek, perched atop Boarin’s shoulders, insisted it was once named Hearth-Home. Dark clouds to the east flashed lightning and winds carried the stench of wet fur and sweet decay. Our scouts did not return. We all knew what this meant, but none of us wished to utter the word “Ursine” aloud. We climbed until we stood at the edge of a vast crater. Then, Kriek saw the fire. This was odd, because Legless Kriek was also blind. In the center of that basin was the source of the smoke venting into the sky. Olgavanna reasoned that at least the steep crater walls offered respite from the howling winds, and so we descended into what would likely be our grave. The smoldering terrain proved difficult to navigate, but any halt would mean to bow our heads and accept slaughter. Then we saw the furnace. The domed structure was the only one that looked hand-made. It was crafted like the head of a great ram, with tufts of goat-grass in the spaces between the smooth flagstones. In the ram’s mouth was a flame so bright, we could find it with our eyes closed. We huddled around it for warmth while Olgavanna laid out the plans for our last stand. It was better to die on our feet, than shivering and huddled in the cold. Most of us were farmers, builders, menders, and few were skilled in combat like the other tribes. We cared for our elderly, our sick, and our children. Now we were far from the aid of the Avarosans—but war craves only blood and bones. We could only ever stand a chance against the Winter’s Claw. If the Ursine struck first, our defense would be terrifyingly short. That hideous legion of half-bear abominations would overwhelm us. And soon enough, we heard their battle-growls growing louder, along with the clamor of their footsteps. We smelled their stench. Hundreds descended the cliffs, like shadows twisting down the basalt slopes. We fashioned spears from our stretchers, and sharpened our carving knives on the flint. We would minister the Rite of the Lamb to our elderly and wounded, and the rest of us would dance with the Wolf. It would all be over by morning. No one saw who stoked the fire, but it grew so hot that we needed to back away. Then the furnace spoke, its voice like crackling logs. “Volibear is near,” it said. “Seek shelter now.” “There is no shelter to seek,” Olgavanna replied to the fire in the forge. We knew not in whose presence we stood. “Enemies are at our heels. The Ursine are flanking us.” “The Ursine…” and the forge grew hotter at these words, “…will be stopped. The other problems are your own.” The goat-grass caught fire. The flagstones grew red hot around the edges, then toward their centers. Steam sizzled from the cracks. Some shed their clothes to seek reprieve as the temperature rose. Others fainted. The next wave of blistering heat dropped us all to our knees, gasping for air. “I never thought I’d see the day!” cried Kriek, weeping tears of joy. Stone began to drip like candlewax. Masonry flowed down the base of the structure. The domed top of the forge melted inward, pulling the rest of the outer shell into a molten pool. A flash of orange light blinded us, briefly silhouetting a humanoid figure. Then, a geyser of flame spouted into the air, drops of molten rock hardened on the ground at our feet. Where the massive forge had stood, there was now a hulking beast, its form blurred by waves of heat. There it was, the forgotten legend Kriek always told us about—Old Ornn, as tall as three frost pines. The ancient forge-master cooled rapidly into fur and form, lava dribbling down his chin and hardening into a braided beard. His eyes were glaring embers. In one hand he carried a hammer, in the other he hefted an anvil with equal ease. We gathered behind our warmother. Olgavanna gripped Fellswaig, her true-ice axe, and approached Ornn. “If the Ursine are your foes, we will fight by your side,” she said. Then, in a gesture unbecoming of an iceborn warmother, she bent the knee and laid her weapon at Ornn’s feet. Fellswaig’s true-ice melted, revealing an ordinary bronze and iron axe beneath. I had never seen true-ice melt. No one had ever seen true-ice melt. We felt it wise to join Olgavanna in her kneeling. Ornn grunted. “Stand up. Kneeling is death.” He looked to the gathering thunderstorm swirling overhead. “I will deal with the Ursine. Do not follow me.” He lumbered toward the advancing horde, who charged forward with vicious speed. We could see his fire reflected in their large eyes. Boarin hoisted the old shaman higher onto his shoulders. “Old Ornn swinging his hammer, he pounds valleys from mountains,” the legless fool half-sung. We watched in stunned silence as the creature stood alone against the Ursine. With a roar, he brought his hammer down onto the ground, and a fissure cracked toward the advancing army, stopping just short of their vanguard. Spouts of lava and sulfur jetted into the sky, hardened fire rained down on the half-bear warriors. Whatever Old Ornn was, he fought with the hot blood of the earth. Behind the Ursine, giant chunks of slag broke through the ground, cutting off their retreat. Ornn charged and smashed them with more swings of his hammer. Still, they attacked with the viciousness of ten berserkers each. But we knew when Ornn reached their rearguard, for there was a deafening explosion—the slag wall shattered, and Ursine flew through the air in contorted arcs of burning flesh and fur. The sky darkened with ash. Columns of smoke rose to clash with the menacing thunderclouds, and bolts of lightning lanced through the haze. The world grew eerily still as the Thousand-Pierced Bear itself took to the battlefield. We could see its telltale shape: spears, swords, tusks, all were stuck in its hide. Lightning followed in its wake. And it laughed. The answering blare of the horn shook our insides. Lava bled from the black cliffs, rivers of fire flowed down the slopes, rushing toward the valley basin, and formed a surging wave. Bolts of lightning stabbed back at the cliffs, to cauterize the wounds in the rock, and a thick, caustic fog blanketed the entire caldera. We saw only blue-white bolts and hellish crimson explosions filtered by the thick vapor. The heat from below the ground scorched the soles of our boots. Then we saw that surging wave of flame form into a great stampeding ram. Ornn charged at the molten beast, catching the thing he had named as Volibear between his shoulder and the lava-ram. The force of the explosion toppled us all. The legless shaman was thrown a hundred paces from Boarin’s shoulders, laughing the whole time. We waited all night for the great cataclysm to overtake us, but it never came. We only heard the roars of the Thousand-Pierced Bear, and the gruff bellowing of the forge ram. When the pall lifted in the late morning, we saw that the slopes around us were covered in chunks of hissing scree, and unnatural columns of crusted basalt rose at odd angles from the ground. As we realized what stood before us, we recoiled in horror and awe. The Ursine were frozen in stone, their faces petrified masks of agony. We did not see any sign of Ornn, nor Volibear. We had no time to look, either. The hunting horns of the Winter’s Claw announced their approach. We picked up our weapons and dug in our heels. What remained of our clothes were scorched tatters of cloth, but our skin no longer prickled with cold. Olgavanna’s hair had been singed away, her muscular back branded with heat. Her once true-ice axe was bronze and iron, as naked as we were. She had never looked stronger. Our blood boiled. Our stomachs growled. We were raw and blistered, bare and exposed. We smeared our chests with ash in the shape of a hammer, and ram horns upon our faces. We sang and chanted in the memory of last night, with the words of mad old Kriek. We knew who lit the fire. The Winter’s Claw would know, too.

Tank

Poppy had nothing against the briar wolf, aside from the fact that it was about to maul her. Its muzzle was stained crimson from a previous kill, and the yordle wouldn’t chance being its next. She was hot on the trail of a renowned monster slayer, and she didn’t intend to die before she found the man and judged his worth. “You should step back. You won’t survive this,” Poppy told the wolf, holding her hammer aloft as a deterrent. But the briar wolf was not discouraged. It padded toward her, propelled by some strange desperation that Poppy couldn’t identify. Then she saw the telltale foam at the corners of its mouth. This animal was not driven by hunger or territorial instincts. It was in pain, and it wanted release. The wolf leapt at her, as if it had made up its mind that its next act would be to kill or be killed. Poppy swung the hammer, using every ounce of her strength to move the weapon’s considerable weight. The blow she delivered collapsed the animal’s skull in an instant, ending its torment. Poppy took no pleasure in the kill, but she supposed it was the best possible outcome, for her and the wolf. The yordle looked around at the empty meadow, but sensed no trace of the monster slayer she’d come to find. She had roamed the countryside, following rumors of his activities, hoping this mysterious hunter might be the fabled hero she had sought for so many years. But thus far, all she’d found were wolves and wyverns and highwaymen, most of whom she’d been forced to kill in self-defense. She had spent weeks traveling from hamlet to hamlet in the far-flung corners of Demacia. She walked as fast as her tiny gait would allow, but the monster slayer always seemed to be one step ahead of her, leaving naught but tales of heroic exploits in his wake. For a yordle, time is a curious thing whose passing is seldom felt, but even for Poppy, the search was beginning to grow long. One day, just when she was beginning to doubt herself and her mission, she spied a notice nailed to a roadside post: “All are invited to attend the Festival of the Slayer!” It was a celebration to honor the very monster hunter Poppy had been seeking. If there was any hope of locating this elusive hero, she would certainly find it there. He might even make an appearance, and then she could size him up in person to determine if he was worthy to carry the hammer Orlon had bequeathed her. The prospect put a spring in her step, and she marched with renewed purpose toward the celebration. Poppy was anxious when she arrived at the village, its banners and streamers gaudily proclaiming the day’s festivities. Ideally, she would have arrived early at such a public event and claimed a spot in the rear of the crowd, so as not to draw attention. But the main market was already packed with spectators, and Poppy found it hard to maneuver through the press of bodies. She squeezed through the legs of the townsfolk, most of whom were too inebriated to notice her. “I’d buy ’im a pint if ’e were here,” slurred one voice above her. “Saved my goats by killing that monster.” Poppy’s heart raced, as it always did when she heard tales of the hunter. What if he turns out to be the one? she thought. But deep inside, Poppy asked a different question. What would she do once she was rid of the weapon? Would she find an entirely new purpose? A yordle without one was a pathetic sight indeed. She stopped her mind from wandering and brought it back to the task at hand. The tiny warrior finally managed to weave her way to the back of the market. She found a tall lamppost both easy to climb and behind the eyes of the crowd. She then shimmied up the post, just high enough to see over the throng. Poppy was just in time. On the far side of the market, a speaker stood with several Demacian officials on a dais, and behind him, something tall was draped in a ceremonial veil. Even with her keen yordle senses, Poppy could barely hear the man’s words. He was talking about the monster hunter, and how he had saved numerous farms and villages from wyverns, rabid wolves, and bandits. He said that although this revered warrior had chosen to remain anonymous, it shouldn’t stop them from celebrating his deeds. The slayer had been spotted several weeks ago near the town of Uwendale, leaving the first eyewitness accounts of his appearance. With that, the speaker pulled off the veil to reveal a stone statue. Poppy grew faint with excitement as she saw the hunter’s likeness for the first time. He was the paragon of a Demacian warrior—seven feet tall, armored in heavy plate mail, and rippling with sharply defined muscles. Beneath him lay the corpse of a wolf he had presumably slain. Just as the image had begun to settle in Poppy’s mind, she heard the sound of a child’s voice a few yards away. “Look, Da. It’s the slayer! The one from the statue!” declared the wide-eyed girl. Poppy saw the girl was pointing in her direction. She whirled around to see if the slayer was standing behind her. But no one was there. “No, lass,” said the girl’s father. “That one’s no monster slayer. Too small by half.” The girl and her father quickly lost interest and strolled through the village to partake in the various amusements. As the crowd in front of the statue dispersed, Poppy moved in for a closer inspection. Now she could see the fine details of the hunter’s marble depiction. His hair was long, fair, and bound in two separate side knots. His hands were gnarled from a hundred battles, and in them, he held a massive battle hammer not unlike the one Orlon had given her. If there was a truer hero in the kingdom, Poppy had never seen him. “He has to be the one,” Poppy said. “Hope I’m not too late.” She turned and left the festival as fast as her legs could carry her, taking the swiftest route to Uwendale.

Tank

Ojan’s knife whittled the edge of the ironwood into a soft curve. As an eight-year-old, he wasn’t the most practiced craftsman; his wood block was just starting to resemble something round and spiky. His sister, Zyama, leaned down from her bunk and grimaced. “What’s that? Rhoksha dung?” she said. “No one will want to buy that.” “It’s not dung, it’s a great and fearsome god, with his armor and everything! And it won’t be for sale. It’s for luck.” “We’re traders, little brother,” she said. “Everything here is for sale.” The caravan clinked and clanged as it rolled over the dunes. Every space from floor to ceiling was packed tightly with jars of spices, leaving just enough room for the family’s narrow bunks. “Something’s chasing us from the south!” Ojan’s mother shouted from outside. Ojan heard her whip crack, urging the camels to hurry their pace. Zyama leaned out the window, staring through her most prized possession, an ornate spyglass. “They’re Kmiros! I’ll ready the arrows,” she said. “They must be after your Rhoksha dung.” Ojan replaced her at the window. Sure enough, hundreds of beetles the size of dogs swarmed over the dune behind them. Zyama returned with a bow and quiver of colorful arrows. She fired, taking one beetle out, but the mass of insects charged on without pause. “How many arrows do we have?” Ojan asked. “About forty,” Zyama said, looking into the quiver. She frowned. Their mother’s voice carried from the front. “We’ll have to outrun them. Hold on!” Whips cracked once more and the caravan jolted forward, knocking Ojan to the floor. Zyama loosed another arrow into the swarm, spearing two at once. The creatures fell, but plenty more took their place. “Oil! In the left cabinet!” their mother shouted. Ojan ducked away and returned with a flask of lamp oil and a wad of rags. He doused a piece of cloth before wrapping it around the tip of an arrow. He lit the bundle on fire and carefully handed it to Zyama, who blasted the flaming shot into a cluster of beetles. They burst into flames, screeching as they burned. Ojan grinned. Together they bombarded the horde with flaming arrows, firing as fast as Ojan could wrap each arrowhead. The air smoked with burning chitin. The caravan accelerated, and the gap increased. They were nearly safe. Ojan’s stomach dropped. The Kmiros spread glittering wings and rose to the skies as a unified black cloud. Ojan flinched as a heavy thud shook the cabin from above. More followed, and the wooden slats groaned under the weight of the oversized insects. “Hold on!” his mother shouted from the front as she veered them sharply left. Beetles tumbled from the roof, but Ojan heard a discordant scratching from above and knew more had landed. Pincers broke through the layered beams in the ceiling and an enormous beetle tumbled into the caravan. Zyama drew her dagger and stabbed it, but her blade was unable to pierce its tough carapace. She pushed Ojan back and waved her blade before her, desperately trying to hold it at bay. More Kmiros dropped through the smashed roof, all snapping jaws and clicking pincers. Ojan dove beneath his bunk, desperately kicking the insects as they clawed for him. He prised the round wooden figure from his pocket. “Please, Rammus, I pray to you,” he whispered. “Help us!” The caravan jolted as beetles landed on the roof. It pitched back and forth like a ship on a rough sea. Then the world tilted sideways as the caravan overturned completely, skidding in the sand. Ojan shielded his face from tumbling objects as dust clouded his vision. He was flung against the wall, his ears ringing and head throbbing as the caravan swerved. After a moment of stillness, he felt a hand tug his arm as his mother dragged him from the rubble. He squinted in the blinding sunlight. The family huddled in the wreckage of their caravan, coughing in the dusty air as the Kmiros circled. A beetle charged forward and Ojan’s mother stabbed it between its clicking jaws. She skewered another as it scrambled to bite her daughter, spilling rank yellow innards across the sand. A third beetle leapt from the top of the caravan and landed behind them. Zyama screamed as it seized her foot in its pincers. The beetles froze abruptly, halting their attack. They hunkered low to the ground, antennas flexing. In the silence, Ojan heard a distant whirring. He watched the western horizon as a sand cloud rushed toward them in a fury of dust. The family brandished their weapons in readiness to fight this new threat. A round armored shape exploded from the flurry of sand and smashed into the nearest beetle with terrible force, crushing it to pulp. The shape barreled on, smashing beasts left and right. Though the insects snapped at the shape with their sharp pincers, it was unstoppable, and in a moment, no living Kmiros remained. The dust began to settle once more, and Ojan glimpsed spiked armor jutting from the round shape ahead. “Is that...?” Zyama said. “Rammus!” Ojan shouted. He scrambled down the hill to meet his hero. The creature’s shell was intricately patterned with spiral scales, and his claws were sharp as knives. He gnawed slowly on the hairy leg of a beetle, juice dripping from his mouth. Ojan and Zyama gaped. Their mother approached the Armordillo, bowing her head deeply. “You saved us,” she said. “We are grateful.” Rammus crunched the beetle leg as the family watched. Several minutes passed. He rolled to the fallen caravan and rummaged through the debris, emerging with Ojan’s wooden carving of the Armordillo. The likeness wasn’t perfect, but certainly discernible. “That’s you,” Ojan said. “Please, take it.” Rammus knelt down and bit the wooden figurine in two with a crunch. He turned and walked a few paces before spitting the pieces into the sand. Zyama stifled a laugh. “Hmm,” said Rammus. He tore a leg from another dead beetle and dragged it through the sand as he rolled away. The family watched him disappear over the horizon. Ojan ran after Rammus to retrieve the broken pieces of the statue. He pocketed them and bowed. “For luck,” he said.

Tank

Sejuani slammed the axe into the tree’s trunk. It had taken her five hits to fell it, and hacking down a dozen trees had winded her. Iceborn were strongest in the cold, and the southern heat was sapping her strength. Her weary reavers cheered. Though only a hundred strong, their roar echoed off the hills. The time for stealth had passed. The southerners had gathered an army of many thousands and were less than a half-day behind. On the surrounding hilltops, enemy scouts watched. The main body of Sejuani’s forces were in the far north occupied by the summer: fatting herds, fishing, and hunting. She had scattered small war parties along the Demacian border to destroy towns, burn crops, and wreck keeps. Hoping, when winter came, her full horde could smash through these weakened lands and raid further south. Scarmaiden Kjelk approached Sejuani. Like the rest of the raiders, she rode a drüvask, a boar-like creature larger than any ox. “Warmother, enemies gather on the other side of the river!” Kjelk said, bringing her monstrous mount to a stop. “Show me,” Sejuani replied, leaping onto her own drüvask, Bristle. He was twice the size of his peers and as wide as a mammoth. Together they rode down the hillside, passing warriors lashing the logs into rafts. She followed Kjelk along the riverfront until sweat dampened their mounts’ backs. Downstream of a waterfall, just three hundred paces across the river, Demacian skirmishers were exiting the forest that had hidden them and climbing down the bare rocks. It was an advanced flanking force of a few hundred archers and spearmen. They spotted the two Freljordian women on their drüvasks, but continued on their path. “Svaag!” Sejuani spat at the flowing water in front of her. In winter, bogs, lakes, and rivers like this one became frozen highways for her fast-moving warbands. A horn sounded, and Sejuani needed no scout to tell her that the main force of the enemy army had arrived. She turned and could see their armor glimmering on the hilltops behind them. The Demacians’ plan was clear. If her warband tried to cross the river on rafts, the enemy skirmishers would rain missiles onto them, cutting her numbers in half. Then, using the high ground just beyond the riverbank, the spearmen would be able to hold her survivors long enough for the main force to catch up and overwhelm them. Bitter and raging, Sejuani kicked Bristle onward and the giant beast ran, crashing through underbrush and shallows back to where the rafts waited. Most of the warriors had already spotted the enemy forces and were preparing to flee along the river’s edge. A fear had gripped them—not of battle, but of the trap the southlanders had sprung. “The enemy will send riders to block off any escape along the riverside. We cannot stand against the army coming down from the hills. We must cross. Now,” Sejuani commanded. Sejuani took a small piece of wood wrapped in leather, no larger than her thumb, and slipped it into her mouth. Then she uncoiled her great flail, Winter’s Wrath. Each link of the weapon’s chain was as large as a man’s hand. At the chain’s end hung a massive shard of True Ice, the largest most had ever seen. Misty vapor rose from its magical cold. Sejuani clamped her teeth down on the leather-wrapped stick to resist the pain of the weapon’s magic. For wielding True Ice always had a cost. Its cold frosted her arm, sending her into agony. Her eyes watered and tears froze like diamonds on her cheek. Yet all her warriors saw was a grimace of certainty and rage. She swung the weapon around her before crashing it into the water. A bridge of ice formed, but—as she had expected—it immediately broke apart in the warmer currents. It could not hold her war party. A few arrows began to fall from the other side of the river, archers testing their range. Few reached land, but she could hear the southerners’ jeers. Sejuani set Winter’s Wrath back, spat out the stick, and removed her helmet. Then she unwrapped the wolf-gut twine on her wrist. Seeing this simple act, her men roared in approval. A barking chant began. The warriors, no longer afraid, knew now they were witnessing something special. Sejuani was making the most sacred oath of her people. She would tie a death knot. She uncoiled her braids and deftly ran the wolf-gut through her hair. She wondered how many times she had taken a death oath. A dozen? More than any warrior known. Eventually she would fall or fail. Would it be today? Arrows began to hit the shore around her as she bound the knot. A few of her warriors fired bolts back at the enemy, but the wind was against them. “I am Sejuani, Warmother of the Winter’s Claw! I am the Winter’s Wrath! I am the Flail of the Northern Winds!” she cried as she tied the last triangular knot into her hair. “Even in death, I will hold the riverbank until you safely cross. This is my oath! I see the Wolf. And my fate… is tied!” Her warriors cheered, voices growing hoarse as they tried to hold the sound longer. Many had eyes wet with emotion, for Sejuani had sworn to save their lives, even at the cost of her own. She did not need to give them any further orders. They readied their weapons and climbed onto rafts. They would cross as quickly as they could—and perhaps they might arrive in time to save her. Sejuani placed the leather-wrapped stick back between her teeth. She ran her fingers through the wiry hair on Bristle’s neck, who needed no oath or words to understand her intent. He grunted and turned to face the water. Again she grabbed Winter’s Wrath and swung it. Exhausted, in pain, and sweating in the heat, Sejuani brought it down onto the water… A bridge of ice formed as Bristle charged. The ice cracked and tilted, but her steed somehow ran true. Arrows fell; not the few exploratory shots from before, but a black rain. Sejuani held her shield high, though a few still stabbed her shoulders and thighs. Dozens pierced Bristle’s hide. Then, barely halfway across the river, the bridge collapsed, and they were in the water. Bristle struggled. Desperately, he tried to hold them above the surface. Still the arrows fell. The distant shore was gone. All Sejuani could see was a rain of black bolts and the water red from Bristle’s blood. The great beast was screaming—with a sound like a thunderstorm and a baby wailing. Bristle sputtered. Without thinking, Sejuani leaned over, protecting his torso with her own. Her shield covered his face to ease the mount’s suffering. It was then she thought, Perhaps our death comes today. Suddenly, Bristle found his footing in the shallows. Instead of drowning, the great beast made huge splashing strides onto the riverbank. Sejuani stood in her saddle and swung her flail in front of her, releasing an explosion of ice. The blast cut apart a dozen unarmored archers. Bristle gored and trampled another two. The others ran from her, back uphill, seeking cover behind the spearmen who formed a shield wall to block her next attack. More missiles would rain down and the spearmen would charge her in mass momentarily, but Sejuani grinned, knowing the archers had lost their opportunity. She looked back to see her own warriors crossing, unharried by the barrage she had just weathered. Sejuani still did not know if she would survive this day, but she had not failed her oath or her people… And that is what mattered.

Tank

The twisted, unfathomable madman known across Runeterra as Singed began his life as an ordinary man in Piltover. As a child, he displayed a prodigious intellect and a boundless sense of curiosity. The principles and interactions of the natural world fascinated him, eventually leading him to pursue a scholarship at the prestigious University of Piltover.It did not take long for his brilliance to be recognized.Singed’s research into the natural sciences was impressive—groundbreaking even—but he found that Piltover’s attention had been stolen away ever since the discovery of hextech, and the opportunities the hybrid of magic and technology presented. Singed found himself on the outside looking in, seeing magic as a crutch leaned upon by those who were either incapable of understanding how the world worked, or simply didn’t care enough to find out. He became a vocal critic of what he saw as a new and ignorant fad within the university.Singed instead delved into the chemical potential of alchemy, and despite the boon his intellect garnered for the field, his efforts earned him little more than the ridicule of his fellow academics. Before long, his funding had dried up, and he was forced out of the university, and out of Piltover. Singed had no choice but to begin a new life—in Zaun.In the undercity, life was cheap, and the demand for innovation high. Singed was quickly able to find work in the emergent chemtech industries, lending his skills and relentless drive for a variety of increasingly unscrupulous clients. His experiments, often of questionable ethicality, cast a wide net: augmenting humans, animals, and even fusions of the two, among countless other endeavours. Nonetheless, he pushed his new field forward at an incredibly rapid pace, but often at the expense of his own health. Understanding better than anyone the chemical needs of a living body, he engineered stimulants that could keep him alert and working for weeks at a time, before he would collapse, shivering and feeble, and sleep for days on end.Singed’s obsessive, tireless efforts as an alchymist meant he found no shortage of patrons and clients, eventually including even the warmasons of Noxus. The gossip was rampant across both Piltover and Zaun that the empire and their Grand General were on the verge of bankruptcy from paying Piltover’s extortionate tithes for military passage to the campaigns in northern Shurima, and soon they might be looking elsewhere for new, less expensive conquests. So long as they paid his fees, Singed didn’t care.After years of smaller, off-and-on projects, Singed was approached by a Noxian military commander named Emystan, who contracted the alchymist to help her break the bitter stalemate of the war in Ionia. She needed a new kind of weapon from him, the like of which no one had ever seen before… and she could make him a wealthy man indeed.Putting aside all other concerns, Singed poured all of his intellect, knowledge, and experience into the synthesis of this new weapon. The result of his efforts was an alchemical fire that was unstable, volatile, and utterly horrifying. When it was finally unleashed in Ionia against the enemies of Noxus, it burned hot enough to fracture stone, and tainted the earth around it with dense, metallic poisons so completely that almost nothing would grow there. Even Emystan’s own allies were appalled, though not quite enough to name her and Singed as war criminals.Now, without any restraint for capital, materials, or even subjects to experiment upon, Singed nonetheless feels the weight of years upon him. His most recent work has taken a decidedly more biological angle, and of a far more dramatic scope. A recent exercise in the melding of animal, man, and machine left his laboratories in ruins, his face held together with filthy bandages, and his subject freely prowling the streets of Zaun, yet Singed remains undeterred.He has already mastered the destruction of flesh, and thus now has turned to the preservation and transformation of it… and perhaps even the possibility that life need not end with an inescapable death.

Tank

BLOOD. SMELL IT. WANT. ACHING. NEED! CLOSE NOW. THEY COME. NO CHAINS? FREE! KILL! IN REACH. YES! DIE! DIE! Gone. Too quick. No fight. More. I want... more. A voice? Unfamiliar. I see him. The Grand General. My general. He leads. I follow. Marching. To where? I should know. I can't remember. It all bleeds together. Does it matter? Noxus conquers. The rest? Trivial. So long... since I've tasted victory. The war wagon rocks. Rattles. A cramped cage. Pointless ceremony. The waiting. Maddening. Faster, dogs! There. Banners. Demacians and their walls. Cowards. Their gates will shatter. Thoughts of the massacre come easily. Who gave the order to halt? The underlings don't answer. No familiar faces. If I do not remember, neither will history. The cage is opened. Finally! No more waiting. WE CHARGE! Slings and arrows? The weapons of children! Their walls will not save them! I can taste their fear. They shrink at every blow as their barricades splinter. SOON! Noxian drums. Demacian screams. Glory isn't accolades; glory is hot blood on your hands! This is life! A thousand shattered corpses lie at my feet, and Demacian homes burn all around me. It's over too quickly! Just one more... The men stare. There's fear in their eyes. If they're afraid to look upon victory, I should pluck those craven eyes out. There is no fear in the Grand General's eyes, only approval. He is pleased with this conquest. Walking the field with the Grand General, surveying the carnage, I ache for another foe. He is hobbled, a leg wound from the battle? If it pains him, he does not show it. A true Noxian. I do not like his pet, though; it picks over the dead, having earned nothing. His war hounds were more fitting company. Demacia will be within our grasp soon. I can feel it. I am ready to march. The Grand General insists that I rest. How can I rest when my enemies still live? Why do we mill about? The waiting eats at me. I'm left to my own devices. The bird watches. It's unsettling. Were it anyone else's, I would crush it. Fatigue sets in. I've never felt so... tired. Boram? Is that you? What are you whispering? Where am I? Captured? Kenneled like some dog. How? There was... the battle, the razing of the fortress, the quiet of the aftermath. Were we ambushed? I can't remember. I was wounded. I can feel the ragged gash... but no pain. They thought me dead. Now, I am their prize. Fate is laughing. I will not be caged! They will regret sparing me. Demacian worms! They parrot kind words, but they are ruthless all the same. This place is a dank pit. They bring no food. There is no torture. They do not make a show of me. I am left to rot. I remember my finest hour. I held a king by his throat and felt the final beat of his heart through my tightening grasp. I don't remember letting go. Is this your vengeance, Jarvan? I hear the triumphal march. Boots on stone. Faint, through the dungeon walls. The cadence of Noxian drums. I shall be free. Demacian blood will run in the streets! No one came. I heard no struggle. No retreat. Did I imagine it? There is no aching in this stump. I barely noticed the iron boot. It's caked in rust. When did I lose my leg? I still smell the blood. Battle. It brings comfort. The hunger gnaws. I have not slept. Time crawls. So tired. How long? So dark. This pit. I remember. Grand General. His whispering. What was it? Not who I think. Fading. Mustn't forget. Message. Cut. Remember. ''SION – Beware ravens.'' FREE ME! BLOOD.

Tank

The golden hour between fifth and sixth bell. That’s my favorite time of day. It’s when most people in the Factorywood finish their work shifts. They’re bone tired, but they’re done for the day. Work is behind them. A hot meal and home are ahead. The people here are nice, and I always feel good squeezing my gelatinous body through the cliff-cracks seaming the rocks around the Factorywood. I feel love emanating from a man going home to his newborn son. I relish the anticipation of a married couple looking forward to a romantic dinner in the Boundary Markets. Their thoughts soak into me. It’s nice, like a warm bath, though I tend to stretch out pretty thin when things get too hot. There’s always a few people in the mix who aren’t so happy. After all, life in Zaun can be hard. Some people are nursing broken hearts, while others can’t stomach the thought of another shift and feel nothing but seething resentment. I absorb the good and the bad, because that’s the way I was made. The bad feelings sometimes make me angry, but there’s nothing I can do about that. My parents taught me it’s okay to feel bad sometimes. Without the bad you can’t properly savor the good. I follow the crowd until people start to go their separate ways. A few lingering bad feelings drift through my thoughts, so I decide to do something good to push them out. I seep down through a network of cracked vents I’ve been meaning to fix for a while, but just hadn’t gotten around to. I collect fragments of metal in my body as I go, extruding them from my amorphous form wherever there’s a crack, then heating my outer layers to weld them in place. With the cracks sealed, clean air from the pump station higher up in Piltover flows once again. Which hopefully means fewer cases of lung blight in a good many of the streets below. The bottom of the pipe brings me out in the upper reaches of the Sump level. Things aren’t so nice here. Lots of people don’t have much of anything, and there’s plenty who want to take even that from them. The sump pools, full of toxins and runoff from the chem-forges, remind me of the time I spent alone as a specimen in a laboratory. I try not to think of that time, because it makes me angry. And when I get angry I sometimes break stuff, even though I don’t mean to. I don’t like feeling like that, so I ease myself into my favorite cleft in the rock, the one running beneath the twisting rookeries of the Skylight Commercia. It’s always nice there. People out together, browsing the galleries, meeting friends, dining or going to see one of the companies of players that tour the undercity with their satirical works. The atmosphere warm and friendly, it’s the perfect place to bask in all that Zaun has to offer. But as I pass beneath the outlying streets, a spike of anguish ripples through me. A tremor of fear and pain disturbs my liquid flesh. I don’t like it. It feels out of place, like something I’d expect to find deeper down in the Sump. That’s the place where bad things happen more often than good things. It shouldn’t be happening here! I get angry as more of the bad feelings soak into me. I follow them down, wanting to stop them from spreading. I push my body from the corroded pipes running below a metalsmith’s shop. My bulk fills the space under the warped floorboards. Light shines in angled beams through the louvers of a grille set in the floor. Angry voices come from above. Shouts and the sound of a weeping man. I press my body against the grille. My gelatinous mass breaks apart, only to reform on the other side. I push hard and quick, re-establishing my form inside the shop. The owner of the shop is on his knees beside a woman who bleeds from a deep wound in her belly. He kneels at her side, one arm outstretched toward the four men standing in the wreckage of his shop. I know these kinds of men. I see them all the time in the Sump; thugs who force good-hearted people to pay up or face seeing their livelihoods smashed. The interior of the shop is lit by chem-lanterns, one of which is held by a man wearing a butcher’s apron and who has a meat-hook crudely fixed to the stump of his other hand. The other three are mere brutes, slab-muscled simpletons in canvas overalls and thick magnifier goggles. Their eyes grow stupidly wide with shock at the sight of me rising over them. I bloat my body, greenish limbs swelling with power as I form a mouth where I think it ought to be. I want to really hurt these men. I know it’s their emotions I’ve been feeling, but I don’t care. I just want to hurt them as badly as they hurt these people. “This is gonna get messy,” I say. My right arm shoots out, smashing the first thug from his feet. He slams into the metal stanchion by the door and doesn’t get back up. A second thug swings a heavy iron club, a sump-scrapper’s oversized wrench. It hits me in my middle and is promptly swallowed by my pliant flesh. I reach down and pluck him from the ground, hammering him up to the latticework girders of the ceiling. He drops back down, his limbs bending in ways even I can tell they shouldn’t. The third thug turns and runs, but I reach up and stretch my arms toward the girders. I spring forward and hammer my feet into his back. I squash him to the ground as their leader slices the blade of his butcher’s hook down the center of my back. It hurts! Oh, how it hurts. The pain causes my body to lose cohesion. I fall to the floor in a shower of liquid green ooze. For a moment, I lose all sense of spatial awareness, seeing and feeling the world from a thousand different perspectives. The thug stands over me, a gap-toothed smile splitting his stupid face. He’s glad he killed me, filled with pride at his destruction of a living thing. His pleasure at this destruction courses through me like a hateful elixir. I don’t want to feel like this, it’s not what I was taught, but to help these people I need to use the wrath that fills me. I must turn it against these men. My scattered globules reform in the time it takes him to realize he hasn’t killed me as thoroughly as he thought. I surge from the floor and crash into him, altering my density to that of a thundering piledriver. We smash into the wall of the establishment, the flesh and bone beneath me disintegrating at the force of impact. I peel myself from the bloody wall, feeling the anger slowly drain from me. I form my body into something man-shaped as I feel the mixed emotions emanating from the couple behind me. The man looks at me with a mixture of fear and trepidation. His wife smiles at me, though I can feel her tremendous pain. I kneel beside her and she takes my hand. It is soft. I am immediately soothed by her gratitude. I nod and place my hand on her stomach. Heat spreads from me as I ease a sliver of my form into her wound. I’ll be leaving a piece of me behind, a piece I’ll never grow back, but I give it willingly, knowing she will live because of me. The portion of my body within her repairs damaged flesh, knits ruptured tissue and stimulates regenerative growth in her stomach lining. Her husband wipes his hand over her wound, and gasps to see her skin is pink and new. “Thank you,” she says. I do not answer. I cannot. Expending such power drains me, leaves me thin. I allow my cohesion to loosen, flowing back down the grille and into the pipes. It is all I can do to maintain my form as I pour down through the cracks in the rock, heading toward the places I know will be awash with good emotions. I need to renew myself. I need to feel all the good Zaun has to offer. I need to feel alive. I need to feel.

Tank