The Exile sat at the bar of the Reflecting Chamber, disconsolate.

You could read it in the way she was seated; back hunched, head supported by her arm as her eyes looked straight ahead into the multicolored glasses lining the bar's shelves. As could be deduced from a glance, her day was not as how she had wanted it to be.

Ambient lighting from the runic fixtures above the bar glinted off her bare caramel skin, the usual dark green shoulder-guard and protective sheet left behind in her quarters. Riven was clothed in what she considered her casual wear, wearing the usual swaths of cloth accumulated from her wanderings, the faded purple corset girding her waist the only deviation from the drab, plain hues of the rough cloth. Every trace of combat-readiness was awaiting her return back in her quarters, the broken sword resting on the floor next to her stool the only exception.

A strand of her white hair stumbled into her line of vision before quickly being put back into place by an exhale of air from her lips.

Riven closed her eyes, once again reflecting on the day that she had trudged through. In truth, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Summoners used her on the Fields for their purposes, she interacted coldly with fellow Champions, and she wasted away within the Institute without a single soul acknowledging her presence.

There was, of course, the occasional admirer, but they were quickly dismissed with one of her signature cold glares.

Yes, it was just another day in the life of an exile. Though Summoners had stated warmly that she had become "part of the family" upon her admission into the League, Riven felt no difference in acceptance than she had felt prior to the Institute. She was still an outcast, not part of any overarching social structure prominent amongst the Champions and Summoners within Institute grounds.

Though it is true that nobody particularly hated her or intentionally refused to socialize with her (notwithstanding the Noxians who viewed her as a political abomination), and some even admired her beauty and cold demeanor, Riven still had nobody to really consult with. She was just one of those Champions who would stand in the corners in soirees, the odd one who wouldn't speak to anyone unless spoken to.

Solitude was something of second nature to her; it had embedded itself into her subconscious after those many years of wandering, cast apart from others of her own volition. She didn't mind being alone. But some days, having nobody to acknowledge her existence could be straining.

Riven grimaced. Pulled back to reality by the quiet applause around her commending the ending of a song, she repositioned her arm to take another gulp of Dack Janiels. The four-man Summoner jazz band fired up another piece, livening up the atmosphere within the span of three notes.

Her eyes glanced to the left after she set her almost-empty glass onto the counter. She observed people (and Yordles) lounging and drinking and socializing. Almost none of them were alone. Her pupils darted a bit to the right. At a table, three Summoners were having a poker match, utilizing runes as gambling currency. A bit to the left, and Gragas was discussing Graggy Ice business matters with Ashe, clothed in his usual robe of nothingness. Directly to her right, Ahri sat next to a blond explorer, coaxing him with her seductive charm.

Riven sighed whilst returning her gaze to the drink below her. She was alone.

Alone.

The word rang out within her psyche with a dull twang. It was such a familiar sentiment. It was almost a friend. But tonight, she felt that its presence was too close for comfort. Although she denied it, Riven desperately needed companionship.

A name suddenly arose out of her mind's tangled mess of angst. A name associated to someone who was not really a friend, just an acquaintance. Her brow furrowed. Of all the names, why him?

Recollections of her conversations with the man surfaced as well, the first being a few words exchanged after a successful match. Unlike the times when other Champions attempted to converse with her during similar circumstances, Riven actually returned the favor.

There was just something about him, whether it be his dry sarcasm, intentionally blatant attempts of flirtation, or that ever-present confidence accompanying the grin curled on his lips, Riven found him to be…interesting.

He was always alone, not really giving anyone else any unwarranted attention. His words were carefully chosen, always sharp. No three words could come out of his mouth without having an edge.

He was an outlaw, a cheat. The type of man that revolted the Exile. Despite this, he was just about the only person in the entire roster of the League whom she had socialized with the most.

Still, all attributes of the man's personality irritated her. He was so blind in his confidence, so utterly annoying. The way his slender, calloused fingers would tip the hat towards her direction whenever she approached, the manner in which they shuffled cards when he would idly stand on a wall with his bearded face veiled by a shadow; Riven usually despised people like him.

He was the sort of scum you would find sleeping the streets, using any means necessary to escape from the hands of the just. Someone who did not respect the higher power.

And yet, he was the closest thing she had to a friend.

This fact made her sigh. Oh, how far she had fallen.

As if on cue, her sharp ears caught the clicking of footsteps approaching the bar from behind her. Riven's breath caught, but her exterior showed no sign of acknowledgment. She kept her eyes trained on the wooden counter.

The wooden legs of the bar stool next to her scraped against the stone floor as its face became occupied. Her hand tingled, its palm resting atop the broken sword on the floor. A silence ensued, until finally the newcomer's baritone voice spoke, ordering a whiskey.

More silence.

Riven suddenly felt his eyes on her face.

"Hey there, beautiful."

It was him. Definitely him.

Twisted Fate.

She formulated her response carefully, layering it with displeasure and frosting it with an unwelcome tone.

"Fuck off."

The Card Master chuckled.

"Good evening to you too. What're you doin' here?"

Riven finally turned her gaze to look at him. He was dressed in his usual attire, minus the gold-trimmed tailcoat and the hat, his long ebony hair framing the squareness of his face and his intense blue eyes. Riven's eyes instinctively shone with a glare, lips set into a grimace.

"Why do you think?"

"Well," Fate mock-pondered his answer, "sensing from your vibes, I can only deduce that you're pretty pissed."

Riven turned back to resume the staring contest with her alcohol.

"If that is what you sense."

Another chuckle.

"Always the joker."

Twisted Fate took a swill of whiskey before turning his body toward the stage across the room, his elbow resting on the counter behind him. A saxophone wailed a mellow melody, accompanied by the bass of a large cello.

Riven tilted her gaze towards his direction. His eyes were still focused on the stage, that grin planted onto his face. His fingers drummed to the rhythm on the bar counter.

She bit her lip. She never initiated conversation, but Fate had pushed her against a wall she was not aware existed. Maintaining her cold tone, Riven ventured forth to break the silence.

"So why did you come here tonight?"

Fate tilted his head to look at her, allowing the music to substitute the conversation as his eyes locked with hers. Riven maintained the gaze as she awaited a response.

"Companionship," he finally said, the word rolling off his tongue as an invitation…

"Don't look at me if you just want a night of recreational sex."

…which Riven promptly denied.

Fate swiveled around to face the bar again. Raising his hands in mock-defeat, he whistled softly.

"Looks like you got me."

He peered over, flashing his teeth at her.

Riven didn't respond, raising her cup to her lips.

She still felt his eyes on her face, and couldn't help but feel her barriers begin to wane. Though she did not want to acknowledge it, her purpose at the bar was the same as his.

Well, if he was lying about the sex.

She sighed and closed her eyes, allowing the bitter swirl of alcohol to encompass her psyche. It'd be best if she just forgot that Fate was even there.

Fate saw this mental shift; he could read it in the way her nose twitched ever so slightly when her eyes closed. He shook his head in amusement.

Years' worth of experience attained from card games during private dealings in his past enabled Fate to read the thoughts of people through their facial expressions. But it was not only through this talent that the man knew of Riven's private plight.

He sympathized with her.

Their paths may have been worlds apart, but upon closer inspection, the two of them were not that different.

A self-imposed exile and a pariah. For years, solitude were their friends.

The only difference was that Fate no longer followed this credo.

He finished his drink slowly, watching Riven's face as she meditated, her senses shutting out everything around her. Fate knew that there was no way to get through to her now, so it seemed that the only route of action was to reminisce.

Another contrast between him and the woman seated next to him, memories were the only thing that could soothe his restless soul.

The ice tinkled within his glass, kissing his upper lip. When he lowered the alcohol, Fate was transported back a few years ago, back when things were looking up for him. Back when his friendship with solitude ended.

Fate took a deep breath. The scents of that night returned. Her scent returned. He could hear Pentakill onstage, performing one of their first gigs. He could hear the chatter around the Reflection Chamber a considerable number of decibels lower, a result of the lack of Champions and Summoners.

These were the early days. The days when the League had just opened its fateful doors to the world of Valoran.

Opening his eyes again, Fate beheld her with a grin. The fiery maroon locks, the threatening spikes adorning her attire, the piercing green eyes, the fatal, tantalizing lips, the succulent blue skin. Evelynn.

Yes, just as he remembered it, this was where he first met her. This was the first time in a long time that he actually engaged in a casual conversation.

It was a starting point for the man, for he had never felt a passion ignite with such a ferocity as the passion he felt for her. His past was as murky as hers, but unlike him, her heart was not yet broken.

Fate's ears tingled with the memory of her first words to him.

"Why hello there, handsome."

She had sat herself down a minute after he ordered a drink. At first, he was cold to her. He attempted to brush her off, clinging to that comforting solace of loneliness as tightly as he could. However, she wore him down ever so slowly as the evening went on.

But it was one particular action that resulted in his fingers to slip.

Fate sighed pleasantly, recalling the sound of her heels hitting the floor, those same heels walking behind him. He felt her warm breath on his neck, her hands slowly making their way onto his shoulders. Fate remembered how his mind told him to hang on, to stay away, that he would just get hurt again.

Then Evelynn whispered three words into his ear,

"You're so tense…"

It might have been some unknown magic, it might have been the alcohol, it might have been the timing, but for whatever reason, that was when Fate resigned, allowing the woman to caress the tension from his shoulders in the middle of the bar.

What followed was hot, passionate, and intense. Their relationship lasted only a few months, but to this day, people still chatter about how fiery the relationship was between them.

Fate closed his eyes again, leaving the world of the past, feeling Evelynn's soothing hands leave his shoulders.

He sighed again before his eyelids retreated, bringing him back to the present.

To his surprise, he was standing. More accurately, he was standing behind Riven, who was still engrossed in her meditation. Fate's eyes flashed. He saw himself, hunched over, grasping tightly to that solitude. Looking down at his hands, he saw the blue hue of her skin, the long slenderness of the fingers. In a manner of speaking, the torch was passed down to him.

At this point, Fate didn't think; he didn't have to.

In the middle of the bar, people all around him, his hands carefully positioned themselves on her shoulders and he began to knead.