The procession moved through Ionia's gates. A few dozen men and women with their heads held high, looking down on everything they saw. Indeed, the culture they came from was vastly different from what they were encountering in the serene streets, pagoda roofs and lotus gardens.
They were a Noxian diplomatic unit, sent to re-negotiate the fragile peace between Noxus and Ionia. They were all clad in red and black, plated armour covering their chests and shoulders, crimson cloaks floating behind them. A truly menacing sight, and yet Ionia had to comply, as they had recently suffered a humiliating defeat on the battlefield.
At the head of the procession there were three men of special importance. Jericho Swain himself, with Darius to his right, had chosen to be present, partly because the diplomatic matter was magical in nature. The Noxian army had won, but the steadfast discipline and spiritual strength of the Ionian unit was not bested by matching qualities – they had lost to a biological weapon. But unlike the usual case, it was not manufactured in Zaun. The man responsible for it walked to the left of Swain, his cloaks and armour reflecting his high rank, his white hair and pale skin contrasting to the dark, tan men from his nation.
His very presence at the side of a ruler was an anomaly. Hemomancers were rare, secretive and hermitic. They rarely became involved in politics, and whenever they did, the results were disastrous. Noxus had had one previous blood mage in its history, back when it was ruled by kings and queens. He was known as Grigori the Horrid and he brought about the end of Noxian monarchy.
Demacia, too, had suffered the touch of a hemomancer. It was ancient history, but her name had survived to present day - Lyandry, the Scarlet sorceress, who, after high treason and many counts of murder, was sentenced to burn for a century through a curse of magical fire, placed upon her by Demacia's highest mage.
Truly, nothing terrified hemomancers as much as fire.
Clad in a plain Ionian kimono, wearing just enough make up to obscure her features, Vayne was among the crowd watching the procession. Observing, learning, biding her time and waiting for the right moment. As always.
…
There were letters to read, contracts to sign. Vladimir knew being the Imperial Hemomancer would come with so much complexity and he rejoiced in it.
Thankfully, the serene sound of a waterfall just outside his window helped him zone out and focus on the walls upon walls of text, even in the bleak candlelight of the three-headed candelabra.
The smell of wax and parchment, late nights at work, but beyond that, the feeling of accomplishment, of his plans coming together one by one. But there was more. Death around every corner, the taste of Noxian diplomacy, the dire price of hesitation, the sweet rewards of trampling your foes.
He considered himself the most refined hedonist in Runeterra.
A sudden knock on his door broke the silence.
"Yes, come in," he answered, his good mood showing.
The girl who came in was wearing thick white makeup, with hair impeccably styled to match. She was from the catering department of the guest villas the Noxian delegation was spending the night in. Vladimir, for one, had been delighted by the hospitality and eager to sample some of Ionia's teas, which he had previously only heard of.
It had only been less than a decade since he tasted the comfort of nobility, since he was given the title of Marquis for his outstanding service to the Noxian throne.
Feeling his predatory gaze on her, the young girl pulled the kimono closer around her succulent body, covering the little cleavage it was showing.
"Good evening," he said. "This is… oolong tea, then?"
"It is," she nodded, her voice like birdsong.
She poured some of the tea into a tiny cup made of small porcelain. When she left the teapot and the cup on his desk and turned around to leave, the movements of her backside beneath the silk now visible to him, the blood mage started to wonder how far Ionian hospitality went. The negotiations had concluded in Noxus' favour, but that was to be expected given Swain's presence. Vladimir wondered whether laying hands on the girl would be going too far. Rape would definitely be out of the question, of course, but perhaps she could fall victim to his charms?
"Wait," he said as he lifted the slightly steaming cup to his lips. "This tea… I'd love to take some home. There are some lovely things one just cannot acquire in my homeland."
"Certainly," she smiled. It was difficult to tell her exact expression in the darkness, as the dim light from the candelabra only reached the papers on his desk. "If you have the time, you may visit the market tomorrow. Oolong tea is sold in large volumes there. But taste it first, tell me what you think. "
Was she… interested? Vlad blew gently on the surface before taking a sip.
"Quite… strange. How is it prepared?"
He took another, trying to confirm the taste. There was fruitiness, and honey, and something more.
"The tea, my lord? It is produced through a unique process which includes withering the plant under the strong sun and oxidation before curling and twisting."
"Yes… but… the brewing? Anything special about it?"
"I would still recommend using an Ionian teapot."
She spoke about the brewing process to him, about its tiniest details, moving closer to him with every word. When she was close enough to pick the candelabra, Vladimir's crimson eyes had changed, pupils so wide the irises were no longer visible. He dropped the cup, spilling the substance over his trousers, and as he reached to stop her, realized he could not move without shaking.
"Ionian scum…" he growled with a shaky lisp "Was this your plan all along? Poison the author of your defeat? Your miserable anthill will be razed to the ground… I have diplomatic…"
His shaking turned to wild seizures. Muscles betraying him, he fell to the ground and curled into a ball, the shaking continuing, one hand on his heart.
"Good thing I'm not Ionian then, and I have nothing to do with this city, "her voice vastly different, the maid took the candelabra away from him and placed it on a shelf by the door. She locked the room and moved to its middle, observing the suffering hemomancer the entire time.
She had found her way into Ionia a week earlier, knowing a Noxian delegation was due to arrive. She had investigated their accommodation, the catering crew, and replaced the maid which was due to help Vladimir with his stay.
She had even meddled with the housing of each delegate, making sure Vladimir was isolated enough for her to strike, to take what she wanted, be it his life or the precious knowledge in his head.
Of course, the battle was far from over. She knew approaching a hemomancer was never a good idea, and touching him would be equivalent to suicide.
So she didn't. She rubbed off the makeup from her features, removed the lens making her brilliant blue eyes a plain brown and removed the kimono, exposing a more practical outfit. There were several objects hidden in the garment's bulky sleeves, including a small automatic crossbow, which she swiftly mounted on her arm.
Then she sat down on the bed and waited for her subject's seizures to stop. She was uncertain whether he would survive the strange concoction she had mixed up for him under the supervision of the Demacian alchemist, but frankly she did not care. If the Imperial Hemomancer let himself be killed by a dose of cyanide and the additional ingredients, both magical and chemical she had put in the tea and masked with additional sorcery, then he was indeed a weakling and undeserving of her attention.
She knew enough about him to understand that his body was so deeply imbued with sorcery it did not have a rigorous structure and could, in theory, clear itself from dangerous substances with ease. Thankfully, the additional enchantments in the potion would delay or get in the way of that.
When his tremors ceased and he lifted his head minutes later, his forehead was glistening with sweat and he was awfully pale, so much that his skin matched the color of his hair.
But he was definitely lucid, seemingly shaken off most of the poison.
"Oh… it's you. Should have guessed by the nice ass."
Vayne rose and striding through the room, preparing her silver-loaded crossbow, finally spoke in her natural voice, like the shine on a polished steel blade:
"Vladimir of Noxus, you have fallen to the practice of the black arts. You have willingly harmed others. You are condemned."
Lifting her crossbow, she shot. The bolt purposefully landed in his calf, earning a half-scream.
He knew his silence was valuable and the best way to end his life was to yell for his comrades to come and save him.
He also knew he would be long dead by now if there wasn't something she wanted from him, even beyond him hearing her silly little judgement, the ritual this madwoman had before ending another life for her twisted purposes.
It was indeed how he saw her – a delusional murderer not unlike himself, stuck in her rituals, in her obsessive searches and manhunts, and cold, righteous fury, deadly nonetheless. He, too, derived a twisted pleasure of being targeted by her.
In fact, the thought of being her target and obsession had, more often than not, turned him on.
Vayne watched the cornered beast carefully, trying to predict his next move. The light of the candelabra reflected in her eyes like the infernal pyres. He looked even more lucid than before, his mind ticking like clockwork, approaching a decision towards his first move.
The mind of a Noxian was capable of all sorts of unorthodox solutions. She decided she would have none of that.
Vayne pulled a bottle from a nearby cupboard and removed the lid. The smell of gasoline filled the room, and the instant panic and terror in Vladimir's eyes let her know she was on the right track. She made several fast, threatening steps toward him, gasoline in one hand and candelabra in the other. The two combined, of course, lead to the complete annihilation of any hemomancer.
"Stop…" he yelped "I can be useful."
She halted, a cold, sadistic smile on her lips. Had she broken him so easily?
Yet her smile convinced her prey of how precious his knowledge was. Suddenly he had a full hand of cards to play. He had a way out of this, a chance.
He was calm and lucid again.
"You're going to kill me in the end of this, are you not? No matter what I do. You won't miss this opportunity."
"I have to admit, that is still my intention, regardless of what you say," she said, measuring every word, taking another step towards him.
He sat up.
"I've paid a lot for these clothes. They're one of a kind, a work of art. You've already ruined the trousers, but if you're going to burn me alive, please let me take off the shirt."
A sting of white-hot fury and a silver bolt pierced his bicep. Blood spread from the wound over the white silk, blood and smoke, the enchanted metal burning his impure flesh.
Yet he did not scream this time. He writhed, sensually, as if he was on the brink of an orgasm, his crimson eyes widened, lips sensually parted, sides mildly flushed just for a moment. The mage never once broke eye contact. He knew he had excited her, he could see that as her iron composure cracked. Yet he wondered in what way.
Still breathing heavily and scanning her face for a blush, he wondered exactly how virginal she was.
The entire exchange lasted no more than a few seconds, after which Vayne stepped and poured the gasoline on him, not breaking eye contact the entire time.
She might as well have left the scene if she averted her gaze from the piercing red irises, and yet this is what she felt doing as the liquid soaked through his white shirt, making it stick to his upper body. His heart was racing, she could hear it, his breathing shallow and loud, and yet his gaze did not shift.
That's when she felt a sting of dread at the man at her mercy, at the depth of his depravity and madness. She raised the candelabra, ready to annihilate him.
"They call me Petal," he whispered.
She stopped again. It took willpower, but the very thought of getting her hands of one of the darkest Noxian cults intrigued her.
"Step back," he said. "I will talk, but it won't be safe for you."
"What do you mean?"
"Step back."
She did. After all, she could always toss the small flame right onto him, ending his miserable life.
"I am bound to my brethren by something stronger than my loyalty. Oaths, but not the feeble kind you've heard of. It will take a day to recite each and every one of them, Demacian, and my free will is greatly limited by them."
Just as her hand shot to set him ablaze, he continued:
"That does not mean, however, that I cannot speak. Ask me. But be patient, every word I say will hurt far more than your silver bolts."
"The disease that brought the Ionian army to its knees and yet spared every single Noxian: was it solely your doing?" was her first question
"Mostly, my dear. While, say, the middle points between other schools of magic have been well studied, hemomancy is very uncooperative. You have to build everything from scratch. And yet I was not the first to try and win a war through cursing an entire army. An archive of that forbidden knowledge was kept in my fair city, unearthed quite recently. With the help of another mage I learned its secrets and used an old creation to forge something devastating."
"Your words are cloudy and lack detail. You will speak in names and places, hemomancer, or you will burn alive."
"The old creation was my master's doing. His name was Dmitri. This is no secret. Yet his plagues killed without discriminating between friend and foe. Noxus needed something better than that."
"The other mage… he… she… originates from the Shadow isles."
He paused. Vayne could see the exertion on his face, the oath's pull on his free will.
"Speak!"
"Hecate."
The air in the room went cold as he said it, and terribly still. A sense of vertigo overcame both of them for no less than a minute.
"How does Noxus have access to sorcery like that?" Vayne spoke when she finally recovered
"I do not know."
"Are you lying? Speculate."
"Noxus has a curious history. Surely you've read it was Mordekaiser's keep. Surely you know the sorceries he dabbled in."
"I do," she nodded.
"Then you know this ancient city hides more under its surface than a Demacian can possibly comprehend."
She scoffed at his remark but decided not to punish him.
"Who," she started again "calls you Petal?"
She could not, at the time, decipher the small smile on his lips.
"Everyone my oaths bind me to. I'm part of something quite important, and something you have been after for quite a while."
"Names?"
"Say it. It's easier for you."
"Black Roses?"
His smile grew larger, this time he was obviously entertained.
"Roses? No roses, Shauna. I would give you plenty of roses if I could thought. I would give you things you'll enjoy more than roses…"
"Enough," she spoke through her teeth. "I gave you plenty of warnings."
She made a decisive step towards him, and yet as she raised the candelabra, the grim, deathly cold in the room returned. The air stirred, fluttered, the wind making a chilling sound on the barely open window, inflating the curtains and tossing Vlad's hair in the air.
The flames of the candelabra flickered and died.
"What is this?" Vayne whispered.
"Listen. You don't break an oath like this without immediate consequences."
First it was just the howling of the wind she heard, but then, approaching, something else. The flutter of a thousand wings, black as the night.
"Run," the mage whispered.
She turned towards him, furious, and shot a single silver bolt straight into his heart.
"This isn't how you kill a blood mage, little trollop. Get out. Next time we meet, I'll be up that pretty little ass of yours. Now run."
She didn't need to be told again. Flinging the window open, she leapt from the second floor of the building and disappeared into the night.