Strength.
Strength was what Swain's parents had droned on to him about for all his life. The young patrician recounted time and time again when his father how all the power of Noxus stemmed from the proud blood of the royal houses. Swain knew this to be true. After all, it was those very royal houses that had been so pivotal in Darkwill's claim to the throne. He had seen smiths, woodworkers, inventors, all toiling away for the good of the empire. But he knew that without anyone to guide them, they would be lost, nothing more than a man without a head. Despite how much of their heart those lower class citizens may put into their work, they would never amount to anything more if they did not learn to think for themselves.
It was common in Noxus to believe that power, dedication, and strength by itself was rewarded; that somehow good things would come magically. But alas, that was only an ideal, and Noxus had no time for ideals. Noxus was a nation of action. To rise above all the rest, one needed ambition, and the motivation to act on that ambition, no matter the cost.
No matter the cost, thought Jericho Swain. No matter the cost… not even family.
Swain frowned, shifting slightly in the gold lined velvet seats in the royal carriage. A personal transport provided by Darkwill. With a steady gaze, Swain regarded the two guards sitting opposite from him, before taking a sip of tea and looking out to the rolling landscape beyond the open window.
No. Not family. They renounced their right to be called family the moment they turned their backs on the Grand General...