"Don't go out today, brother." He sighed as he strapped on the final piece of armor, flicked the blue cape around his shoulders, and turned around. His sister, Luxanna, stood there, strapping on her own armor.

"And why not?"

She looked almost fearful, a look he rarely saw on Lux's face. "Our reports say that their assassin is with them. I don't want to see you hurt, Garen."

He glared at her. "Don't you think I can handle a single assassin?" Noxus had certainly tried to assassinate him before; he had sent their heads back to Noxus. He felt indignant: she had seen him fight many times before; had she really that little faith in him?

"But it's her, Garen. The Sinister Blade."

"She doesn't scare me." He dutifully helped his sister with the fastening of her breastplate.

Lux still looked fearful when she left his tent, off to the command tents, where she would help coordinate the coming battle. Their reports had said that the noxian division would be upon them in barely two hours, and while the noxians were outnumbered, they had always been fierce fighters; Garen was sure it would be a close match.

On his way to follow his sister to the command tents, he met up with Jarvan, the crown prince of Demacia. He clapped Garen on the back, giving a wide grin.

"You ready to have some fun, Garen?" He grinned, looking ready to step into battle in his shining golden armor, his spear in his hand. "Ready to kill some noxian scum?"

Garen took no joy in killing, even if it was noxians. KIlling was something he did out of duty to his family, his city, and his king; the noxians did not abide by the high ethics held by the Demacian standard, and if they so wished to fight, the Demacian commander of the Dauntless Vanguard would make sure they would not to threaten Demacia again. His life was the endless fight to keep Demacia safe from all its enemies; especially Noxus.

He looked from his crown prince, his childhood friend, and towards the field for the coming battle, though it was obscured by a stout wall of cut down, pointed trees. The wall had, so far, protected them against any noxian spies learning of their plans.

"This battle is only the first of many, isn't it?" He asked his old friend, looking thoughtfully towards the wall of wood as they walked towards the command tents.

"Probably," Jarvan said cheerfully. "I'll have your back, Garen."

"The same," he muttered, still staring at the horizon he could not see. Their chosen battlefield was midway between the two city states, a few days march to each city from the middle.

"We'll likely need reinforcements soon," he said, looking back at the camp at the soldiers at his command. They were a few hundred, two divisions of the several thousand strong Demacian army. The noxians had, for now, only brought one division.

Jarvan laughed. "Don't worry about that so much, Garen. They're noxians. How much trouble can they be?"

But Garen did not laugh. He rarely did, especially in wartimes.

The demacian camp was currently in a state of uproar, something Garen did not approve of. He preferred everything to be orderly done and quietly organized, but when the battle was only hours in the making, he supposed it did not mattered how the soldiers got ready; only that they did.

They entered the vast command tent to fits of giggles by the serving girls, mostly on Jarvan's account. He flashed them all wide grins as he walked over to the table in the middle to look at the maps. The only girls who had not squealed were Luxanna and Jean, who was on the other hand, staring at Garen. Jean was Jarvan's baby sister, and they had been promised to each other in marriage for as long as Garen could remember. They had been set to marry several times already, but the continuous conflict between Demacia and Noxus, and thus his continuing deployment in service to the army, had postponed it time and time again.

Jean was pretty enough, he thought, with golden hair and brown eyes, a few years younger than him though, around eighteen now. Their marriage would be one of convenience, binding the Crownguards ever more tightly to the Lightshields.

Jarvan gave his little sister a hug, and winged at Lux. She in return responded with a grimace. Jarvan was a well renowned ladies man, and proud of it.

The moment the giggles had settled down, battle horns sounded.

Lux looked up in panic, speaking the words Garen had somehow known would come.

"Those aren't ours. The noxians are marching!" She looked from Jarvan to Garen. "Boys, lead the cavalry charge. Send word to the king, Miranda." One after one, she commanded everyone as to what would be their task. If one did not know Lux, one might have speculated as to why her commands were followed so blindly, especially with a prince and the commander of the vanguard in the room, but to everyone who knew how blindingly intelligent his sister was, and how trusted she was by not only the prince, but the king as well, would not hesitate to follow her commands. No one hesitated once she had told them what to do.

He caught a last glimpse of her pleading look as he stormed out of the tent.

Despite the late warning, the demacians were ready at the chosen battlefield when the noxians arrived. WIthout any pause to stop, the noxian cavalry of black warhorses charged straight into them, causing disruption and panic wherever they went. Garen and Jarvan charged after them, cutting down as many of the enemy as they could reach, and charging after those they could not.

"DEMACIA!" Garen called, to loud cheers of the men, as he and Jarvan charged forwards, crashing into the noxian army. His horse soon fell beneath him, but Garen had always preferred to fight on foot, and started cutting through the enemies around him. It did not matter, however, how many he cut down, two more seemed ready to try to kill him. It was a bloodbath. Both sides had already sustained heavy casualties when a messenger appeared suddenly at their side, telling a rambling story about an execution taking place to their right. Garen and Jarvan turned in shock to see what he was talking about, but saw nothing; with the exception of two dozen fallen soldiers straight to their right. A wide gap had formed between their fallen soldiers and the noxians. Jarvan moved forward to inspect the carnage, ignoring the jeers from the noxian soldiers.

For the first time in this battle, Garen felt a surge of fear; he could not protect Jarvan when he was out in the open like this, ignoring everything and everyone around them to see what had happened to his men. He quickly motioned for six of his best men to shield the prince from the enemy, as the battle raged on around them.

From out of nowhere, a knife came hurling straight towards Jarvan's shielded chest. Reacting instinctively, Garen threw his sword up to block it, shattering the knife in its path before it could hit its mark. It took a few moments to sink in how close someone had gotten to killing his crown prince, but when it finally hit him, he roared with rage, and motioned for more guards to surround Jarvan as he stepped into the gap between the armies.

He yelled in rage. "Who did that?" To his great surprise, a young woman walked into the clearing, a swagger on her hips. She was smirking. Wearing little but skin-tight leather pants, a fitted breastplate that covered little but her breasts, a cropped jacket and spiked boots and gloves, she twirled a dagger in her left hand as she approached. Halfway between the fighting armies, she stopped. When she stopped walking, he noticed the vertical scar that marred her left eye and cheek.

"How dare you attempt to assassinate the crown prince?" he bellowed, still enraged that he had almost failed in his utmost duty.

"I'm sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all, as she walked even closer, a smirk on her face. "I must have been misinformed, but isn't the whole point of war to kill the enemy?"

"Who are you?" he asked, but quite sure he already knew. In all of Valoran, there were perhaps 3 people able to hit a mark from that distance with a knife, and only one of them was female.

"I am Katarina Du Couteau, of Noxus."

From behind the wall of protective guards, Jarvan hissed. Garen understood why; it was to this woman that they had lost nearly fifty good ranking officers during the course of their on and off war.

"Kill her," the prince ordered. Three of the soldiers standing around Jarvan charged at Katarina. Two were dead on the ground before taking ten steps; the last man came nearly halfway to her before falling backwards, a knife planted between his eyes.

"No one approach," he commanded. Jarvan was a good fighter, and a good prince, but in the field of battle, the orders of the commander's words counted for more. "Protect the prince," he ordered the soldiers, as he charged forward to meet Katarina in battle.

Cheers of 'Garen, the Might of Demacia' sounded from the the demacian troops, led by Jarvan himself, just before the fighting around them continued; it had paused momentarily when he yelled at the woman in front of him.

Katarina mocked a bow, a smirk on her scarred face. Her vivid green eyes gleamed with anticipation. "It shall be my honor to kill you, Garen Crownguard, Might of Demacia."

He did not reply. Instead he charged, bringing his massive sword around to slice her in two. By the time his sword would have hit, however, she was no longer there. His blade sliced through thin air, and continued to spin around, propelled by the force Garen had put into the swing. To his surprise, Katarina had somehow managed to get behind him, and had only just managed to step back from the blade's return spin. Had she not moved, she would have been sliced in two. The incredulous look in her eyes told him just how surprised, and very furious, she was.

When his blade came to a rest, she pounced. With a curved dagger in each hand, she jumped on him and kicked him in the shoulders. The kick came with such unanticipated force that it knocked him clean to the ground, no doubt helped by his heavy armor. Her red hair gleamed in the sun, framing her ivory skin in fire. The unceremonious meeting with the ground had knocked the breath out of him, and as she sat atop him, he fought to retrieve it. While she restrained his arms with her knees, she looked him straight in the eyes, placing her two daggers across his throat.

"Goodbye, Might of Demacia," she said, giving the blades a push into his throat, but not hard enough to break the skin. For a moment, he wondered why she did not act. As the battle raged around them once again, she sat there, staring at him, but not killing him. He thought, for just a moment, that he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but then it was gone. The hesitation however had been just what he needed; he used his knees to unbalance her, toppling her off him. By the time he was back on his feet, she was already charging once more, fierce determination showing in her entire face. However, now that he was more prepared for her style of fighting, dodging and feinting, he found they were rather equally matched. For every small knife she threw, he dodged and swing his sword, which she in turn dodged.

It was exhilarating to fight with the Sinister Blade. She could not throw her daggers without him intercepting them, any more than he could swing his sword without her dodging it. She was faster, but he was stronger. They fought for hours, until the sun had started to set in the horizon, by which time it became clear to them both that they grew tired. Katarina had started to make mistakes, as had he. Had their opponents been any less skilled and calculating, the mistakes would not have mattered, but as the stakes stood, each mistake gave the other an opportunity to close in for the kill.

Capitalizing on their mistakes however, turned out to be harder than Garen had thought. He had never fought for this long at a time before, but he was used to enduring long periods of exercise. As he tried to make good use of her mistakes, she seemed to find new strength to block him, and stage a counter attack, which he would then be hard pressed to dodge. After a short time of this, however, it was obvious that she was tiering. Soon after he noticed this, her dance with daggers came to a halt, as he held up his hand to her.

"Are you giving up, Might of Demacia?" she said, trying to tease him. The impression was slightly ruined by the fact that she looked exhausted.

"Not at all," he replied, taking short and shallow breaths. It was well known that demacians did not give up in righteous battle; they either returned victorious or not at all. "I was just about to offer you a chance to surrender, Du Couteau."

She looked at him curiously as she sheathed her blades. to his surprise, she walked closer to him, stopping inches before him. She placed a gloved hand on his cheek, and stared into his eyes. It was only as she leaned in even closer that he relayed just how beautiful she was.

"Me, surrender?" He could feel her breath on his lips; the heat was making him light headed. "Never. Just because I have grown tired of today, does not mean I will not return tomorrow, every day if I must, until I win."

When she ended her words, a sharp pain shot through his body, originating in his upper thigh. He looked from Katarina's seductive triumphant eyes, down on his own body, seeing the hilt of a dagger sticking out from a chink in his armor. As he staggered back, he swing hiss word towards her exposed midriff, giving her a wide but shallow cut. The triumphant look melted away, and her face contorted into a visage of shock and fury as she retreated from him.

He expected her to turn back and finish him off, like assassins did, but she called her men to a halt, ordering their retreat back to camp. With a last look at him, she said, "Don't forget about me, Might of Demacia!"

When she was fully obscured by her retreating men, he turned to face Jarvan. He stood alone now, his guards all gone to tend to the wounded and retrieve the dead. Jarvan looked livid.

"Why didn't you finish her off?" He asked angrily, as Garen pulled the small throwing dagger out of his upper thigh. It didn't feel like it had severed anything important.

"I'm glad I didn't die too, thanks," he grumbled, furious with himself. He was sure he could have finished off the Sinister Blade, if she had not retreated when she did. Perhaps she knew it too, and that was why she had done it. She was an assassin, not made for or trained to endure hours and hours of combat.

He studied the dagger that had embedded itself in his thigh. It was small, made for throwing from a distance, rather than fighting. It had no real handle, but on the hilt was emblazoned a pair of crossed daggers; the Du Couteau family crest.

Jarvan's face softened immediately when he saw the dagger, and put his hand on Garen's shoulder.

To his own surprise, Garen grinned. "That was the best fight I've ever had," he said, looking down at his friend's incredulous face.

"But she nearly killed you several times," Jarvan protested, looking down at the dagger. "She was inches away, she could have thrust that dagger anywhere else in your body at that distance, and you would not have been able to stop her."

That thought was troubling, he admitted to himself as he thought over Jarvan's words. She could have killed him. But then why had she not done so? He and Jarvan walked back towards their camp in silence, with Jarvan throwing suspicious looks his way whenever he had to take a deep breath.

It was still an excellent fight, Garen thought, the adrenaline still pumping through his body. He would absolutely love to fight her again.