A/N: Thank you to Balabalabagan for being my beta reader. And thank you to Zinganza for playing a lot of Vayne and encouraging me on this fic.

This story was begun as a NaNoWriMo. I got about 16k words in, and then life happened. So I have about 17k words now and I'm currently going back and editing what I have down into chapters. Once I finish that process, including posting, I'll hopefully move on and continue writing the story from there. The point I'm trying to make - as a NaNoWriMo, the first four chapters are going to move slowly and focus more on world building because they were intended for an unbroken 50k+ word pace instead of a normal chapter-by-chapter pace. Things should pick up once I finish editing what I've got and switch to a conventional fic chapter style.

This fic is lore compliant in terms of the Institute of War not existing. I may have modified the timeline a bit, but it's not like the Journal Of Justice was ever any good about the timeline in the first place. I'm using the updated Fiora lore. I'm using old Cassiopeia lore. Generally, if there are any places where I've chosen to use an older version of a champion's lore, I'll make note of it.

In any case, I hope you enjoy!


Duck, pivot, roll, shoot.

Crack.

The silver bolt lodged in the creature's chest, shattering a rib on the way to its heart.

Amidst a cloud of dust, Vayne stood, loading another bolt into her crossbow.

One more vampire laid to rest. Were there more?

Calm, she scanned the street.

Around her, nothing moved. That didn't mean anything. The dead were good at staying still.

For the time being, the area seemed clear.

At her feet were three piles of gravedirt. Three beasts laid to rest.

There'd been four murders before her arrival – more than she'd expect from three vampires. Not beyond reason though. Had she gotten them all then? If nothing else, vampires were communal. They tended to fight, and die, together. If there was a fourth, it either would have joined its fellows to leverage their numbers, or it would have fled.

It was unlikely it would attack now.

But Vayne hadn't survived so long as Demacia's Night Hunter by letting her guard down.

Slower than before, she studied her surroundings.

To her eyes, everything was tinted red – a side effect of her glasses, enchanted to better her vision in the dark. They'd saved her life more than once.

On either side of her were free-standing wood houses, ordinary constructions for a rural northern town. She was standing in the middle of the main street, a glorified dirt track. Several more houses stood adjacent to the ones nearest to her. The town had little else. All around were mid-spring cornfields, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Where would a vampire hide?

The alleys between houses?

Methodically, Vayne paced the street, peering into every alley, checking under and behind wagons and barrels.

The sun was beginning to light the horizon by the time she was satisfied.

Vayne felt herself sag as tension ebbed out of her.

Daylight was the closest thing there was to safety.

Three vampires. A good hunt.

It was time to sleep.

Without adrenaline fueling her, exhaustion gnawed at every muscle. Even though the town was small, she'd had to spend the entire night flushing the creatures out.

Would it have been more effective to drum the townspeople up into a mob?

No. Mobs were impossible to control. Mobs meant civilian casualties – an acceptable price to pay, sometimes, but never preferred.

Vayne shook her head slightly, as if the physical act could chase away her thoughts. She could debrief herself once she'd gotten some rest.

The town inn was at the exact other end of the main street from where she'd finished her search.

Typical.

Someday, she thought, someday she'd plan her hunt to end conveniently. Thankfully though, the settlement was small and it took very little time cross it when she wasn't checking and double checking every shadow.

The town inn was an inn in only the loosest sense of the word. It was actually the house of a man who had a second room with a bed in it and a door that lead outside. Small towns rarely had enough passing travelers to warrant a true inn.

It wasn't as nice as her apartments in the citadel, but it was far better than dirt.

Vayne let herself into the room she'd rented, took off her boots, and then collapsed into the bed.

Sleep came near instantly.

"Shauna Vayne!"

Vayne's eyes flew open, her hand already moving towards the knife she kept at her belt.

"Shauna Vayne, in the name of the King, the Crown, the State and-

Vayne pinched her nose as she tried to tune the rest of the crier's formulaic summons out. How had the court even found her this far from the capital? And what did they want?

Not bothering to put her boots back on, still half-asleep, Vayne heaved herself up out of bed and staggered across the dirt floor to the door. When she opened the door, nearly slammed the messenger in the face with it. If she had, she wouldn't have been particularly sorry. But as it was, she hadn't, and that meant she could get it all over with that much faster. "I am Shauna Vayne," she mumbled.

It was so bright outside. So very bright. Just before noon, judging from the shadows. How much sleep had she gotten? Not nearly enough.

Speaking loudly but not shouting anymore, the messenger, dressed in dirt-stained white and gold-trimmed blue, started to repeat himself. "Shauna Vayne, in the name of-

Vayne waved a hand. "Just get on with it."

Thankfully, the messenger didn't try to argue with her. "House Vayne requests your presence in the capital with all due speed," he said.

Vayne was speaking before she remembered the courier likely wouldn't have an answer for her. "Why?"

Just as she'd thought, the messenger shrugged. "The message is only for you to arrive quickly."

Vayne nodded. "Thank you," she said. She closed the door, turned around, walked back to the bed, and went back to sleep.


Unlike the backwater highways Vayne had traveled for so long, the road into the city was broad, paved, and damnably crowded.

People. People everywhere. All kinds of people. People pushing and shoving and shouting and not getting out of her way.

Vayne grimaced. Beneath her, sensing her frustration, her horse fidgeted. Idly, she reached out and set a hand on the mare's neck. Her horse had carried her across Demacia and back more times than she cared to count. An animal was not a person, but she still felt some guilt at upsetting one that had served her so well.

She was mounted, for Tread's sake – shouldn't the men milling about in a mass outside the walls move aside?

Patience – she was good at patience, when it came to stalking her quarry. She was bad at patience when it came to pointless delays. And this delay was indeed pointless. It had never taken her this long to get into the city before. Adding to her annoyance, the day was uncomfortably warm and moisture in the air made the humidity oppressive.

Leaning forward, Vayne squinted towards the gates, trying to catch a glimpse of the blockage.

The gates… The gates were closed?

"Clear the way! Clear the way!"

Vayne twisted in the saddle, looking for the crier. He was some distance behind her on the road. Like her, he was mounted, but unlike her, he was moving forward as the bystanders made way for him. He wore the gold and blue livery of the State and he was flanked by two mounted guards. Behind them was a carriage, drawn by a team of horses, black, all of them, black like the carriage itself.

At first, Vayne thought her eyes were deceiving her but, no, there it was in sharp red paint on the dark wood of the carriage - the double headed axe of Noxus.

Observing the crowd, she could see that, for once, she shared something with them. Unease. For what reason would the State bring the enemy so deep into Demacia?

"Clear the way! Clear the way!"

The entourage was closer now, close enough that Vayne found herself nudging her horse to the side of the road, then off of it, to allow the crier, the guards, and the carriage to pass. Following the first carriage were several more of the same sort, black as well, curtains drawn, signed with the sigil of the enemy.

The crowd, which before had buzzed loudly with chatter, went silent as the ominous column went by.

Even when the column had passed, for a ways in its wake, the Demacian peasants stayed cowed.

Vayne, on the other hand, was not as easily shocked into idleness. Seeing the carriages had cleared the road, she urged her horse forward, briskly trotting behind. Traveling in this way, it didn't take long to reach the long shadows of the citadel walls.

The area immediately surrounding the closed gates was clear, cordoned off by soldiers in the distinctive heavy plate of the Dauntless Vanguard. Strange that they weren't out in the field on the front lines. And with Noxians so deep in the heart of the country? Something must have happened in the east. Something good? Bad?

Vayne had little interest in the eternal struggle at the border, and no time for it either. Black magic recognized no state lines, no political squabbles. Noxus invested nothing in sanctioning it, true, but the war was the duty of others. Her duty lay elsewhere.

Guessing that there was no place for her beyond the cordon of soldiers, Vayne came to a halt just at the very edge of the ring while the column proceeded on. Mounted, she had a good view of the makeshift parade ground.

The soldiers were stretched out to form a large semicircle around the closed gate. There was a cluster of them at the gate itself, surrounding a wooden platform. The platform had only two occupants – a hulking man in the same heavy plate uniform as the soldiers, save for a deep Demacian blue scarf, and a slightly smaller man in golden armor.

The scarf – the bigger man was the commander of the Dauntless Vanguard. Vayne frowned as she searched her mind for his name. He was a Crownguard, wasn't he? Gareth maybe?

And the smaller man – his golden helm was topped by a flourish of high-reaching spikes resembling a crown with a bright blue gem in its center. Jarvan. Which Jarvan though? The prince or the king? Even if Vayne were close enough to see his face, she doubted she'd be able to tell them apart. The court doctors were skilled enough at their craft that, when last she'd seen the king, he'd had the body of a much younger man, though perhaps not the mind of one. His son was his spitting image.

Flanked by the Crownguard commander instead of the seneschal though, if Vayne were to guess – and she hated guessing – she'd guess that the smaller man was Jarvan IV.

With all the precision of servants who spent more time rehearsing than working, the Noxian carriage drivers brought their teams into position, creating a wedge shaped formation behind the first carriage. Once in position though, no one moved. It was as if they were waiting for a signal.

A shadow passed overhead. Driven by instinct, Vayne reached for the small crossbow she kept on her saddle. Driven by instincts of their own, the soldiers near her tightened their grips on their halberds.

Vayne was many things, but she wasn't a fool. Slowly she pulled her empty hand away from her weapon and then raised both hands in a placating gesture. The soldiers relaxed, but she could feel them continuing to watch her for any sign of aggression. At least they were good at their jobs.

The shadow that had startled Vayne and, judging from the murmur amongst the crowd, everyone else as well, continued to move back and forth, back and forth, circling. Tilting her head up, Vayne squinted at whatever it was. Against the glare of the overcast sky, it was hard to make out. From what she could tell, it had wings too small for its body – surely sorcery must be keeping it airborne.

Vayne's brow furrowed.

She knew what the shadow was.

Galio, Durand's sentinel. He'd arrived some years ago at the citadel, if memory served, and requested to serve Demacia like his creator and his construct brethren before him.

His creator, to whom he'd owed his duty, was dead, and most of his construct brethren were now dust in burned out border towns.

He wasn't made from black magic, but his existence, his sentience, had always bothered Vayne. He was stone, and stone was not meant to move and to think for itself. What was more, if he had failed his maker, what reason was there to think he would not fail Demacia as well?

But the decision to make use of him was not Vayne's, it was the Crown's.

After a final, low, pass above the crowd, Galio swooped down to land near the foot of the platform, between it and the carriages.

The horses nearest his landing shied away, but didn't bolt. Either the horses or their drivers must have been exceptionally well trained.

In a booming voice that recalled gravel grinding down at the beginning of an avalanche, Galio spoke – "Kneel. For the Exemplar of Demacia, His Majesty, Prince Jarvan Lightshield the Fourth."

Well, now she had confirmation. It was the prince.

Around her, everyone, save the soldiers, bent the knee to their sovereign. Brought up within the citadel, Vayne found herself dismounting so that she too could give her prince his due.

For a moment, across all the crowd, there was a respectful silence.

And then it was broken by a bang and a clatter.

Without rising, Vayne looked up. Though her view was partially blocked now by the soldiers of the Dauntless Vanguard, she could see some of the proceedings through the gaps in their line.

One of the Noxian carriages, the one at the front, had opened – violently, it seemed.

A man emerged, huge, possibly as big as the Crownguard on the platform. Although he carried no weapon, he wore full armor, dark plate accented with a deep crimson cloak. Part of Vayne wondered how the horses, even as a team, had managed to carry him. His bulk, clad in thick steel, seemed almost too large to move under its own power, much less be dragged across the country. The carriage seemed to rise up as he exited.

His voice was nearly as deep, and just as booming, as Galio's. "Noxus," he said, articulating every syllable in a way that belied rage, "Kneels to no one."

Behind him, a woman stepped from the carriage. Even from a distance, Vayne could tell that the woman moved with the sort of grace that would make her beautiful no matter what she wore, what she looked like. What she wore though, was, in this case, beautiful. It was a black dress with red peeking out in all the right places to draw the eye to her slim, statuesque figure. Standing next to the man, she was very nearly his height. Rich auburn curls cascaded down her shoulders, moving just enough in the breeze to remain natural but also tidy.

The man glanced over at the woman, as if daring her to speak, then turned back towards the prince. "And I do not kneel to you."

The woman laid a hand on the man's armored shoulder. He immediately pulled away from her. She addressed the platform as well. "I hope you'll excuse the general," she said. "In Noxus, the act of kneeling means something quite different than it does here – we would not ask your envoys to kneel and we would expect you to show the same courtesy."

Her voice was honey in a way that reminded Vayne of mesmeric sorcery. There was no magic at play here though, at least, not that she could sense. Still, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.

The prince lifted his hand, gesturing, allowing the assembled to rise.

Vayne stood with the rest. Her view was still not as good as it had been when she was mounted, but it was better now. Jarvan had advanced to the edge of the platform, though he hadn't stepped down.

"Demacia would not invade three peaceful nations at once and then send envoys begging for peace," Jarvan said. Sporadic, nervous, laughter broke out across the crowd. "Where are the rest of you? We will not allow any hiding cowards within our walls."

Hulking, heavy, proud – above all else, Vayne would describe the Noxian general as angry. "Noxians are not cowards," he spat.

Dignified, Jarvan said nothing, only waited.

The woman looked towards the carriage she'd come from and said something far too quiet to be overheard. And then she, too, waited.

Vayne could feel the tension of the crowd. The Noxians were surrounded, by the best of all Demacia's soldiers. And around the soldiers were the men of Demacia, the backbone of the nation. Would the Noxians defy the prince – defy the Crown, the very State?

The lead carriage shifted – someone else was there, coming out now – another woman.

The first thing Vayne noticed was her hair. Red. Almost unnaturally red – or perhaps that was a trick of the light and the way it contrasted against her black leathers. She was tall, but not quite as tall as the other two Noxians. She moved with the same grace as the first woman, but she was wreathed in the sort of stillness that could turn into violence in a heartbeat.

Vayne knew a killer when she saw one.

So the man was a general, the representative of Noxian power. The first woman was some sort of a courtier, a diplomat, meant to speak for the general. And this other woman? An assassin. There was no doubt in Vayne's mind of that. An assassin who wasn't even trying to hide. Why?

The red-haired woman raised a pale hand and lazily dropped it.

Each of the other carriages opened at her signal. Noxians filed out of them, an entire entourage, all dressed in black and red and most looking less like servants and more like soldiers.

Vayne wouldn't fault them for their poor disguises. Demacia would never trust them, even if they'd hid themselves better.

When all the company had come to attention behind her, the assassin strolled over to stand in front of the general and the diplomat. She stood relaxed, lazy, to the point of being disrespectful. Her voice was an amused drawl. "Happy?"

The prince didn't deign to respond to the barb. "Demacia welcomes you all," he said. "And we look forward to the coming days as we discuss a Noxian surrender and a return of all lands and prisoners."

The redhead scoffed, then turned her back to the prince. Without pausing to speak to either of her companions, she climbed back into their carriage. The diplomat and the general, neither one looking pleased in the least, shared a look, then followed the assassin's lead. Behind them, the rest of the Noxian party also returned to their carriages.

At the platform, Jarvan moved to the side where a horse waited for him. As he mounted, servants in the blue and gold of Demacia hastily pulled the platform aside to clear the way through the gates.

The Crownguard commander remained on foot. Vayne sincerely doubted any horse could carry him with all his bulk.

Once the prince and his attendants came in order, Galio, who had remained as a statue throughout the exchange, rose again to the air. Beating his too-small wings in a mockery of flight, he soared up, up, up, over the wall.

Dust shuddered down from the ramparts as the massive gates, heavy enough to defend a city, began to open. Galio pushed first one out, then the other. Only when both lay fully open did the column advance at the slow speed of parade. The carriages with their escort filed back into a line and one by one passed into the city. Behind them came the Dauntless Vanguard, and behind them – finally then came the crowds who'd been waiting for entrance at the main gate for the better part of the morning.

That Demacians would be halted in their work for the sake of Noxian ceremony – ridiculous.

In a single smooth motion, Vayne mounted her horse again. Noble-born, she'd learned to ride when she was young, though, then, she'd learned to ride as a girl rides, careful not to disturb meticulously arranged skirts. An impractical skill for anything but fetching a husband – and dying horribly in the field.

But then her father, her mother, both her older brothers – they'd all died.

No. They hadn't died. That made it sound as if they'd come to a natural end, old, at the end of their allotted time.

They'd been killed.

Vayne's grip on the reins in her hands tightened. Her horse, no doubt weary of her habits, tossed its head slightly, as if asking what she thought she was doing. With a deep breath, she relaxed.

Ten. She'd been ten. The witch had torn apart her father's conciliar guard. She hadn't touched them, just waved a hand and some force had ripped them limb from limb. Like it was nothing.

And it had been nothing, to the witch. Monsters respected nothing of life.

And now Vayne held the twisted un-lives of those black forces in equal contempt.

After the witch had killed her immediate family, control of their house had passed from her father to his younger brother.

Abraham Vayne was not a bad man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he was not her father and he never attempted to fill that hole in her life.

Perhaps if Vayne had shown any interest in a noble marriage her uncle would have arranged it for her, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd thrown herself into eradicating the dark, unnatural, things that roamed the Demacian night. What remained of her family had stood by. For a time, they'd watched with some concern, occasionally tried to guide her back to a more traditional path, but then there'd come a time when they gave up and ignored her.

Which made Abraham's message to return so unusual.

Vayne hadn't lived in the capital for over a decade. She'd attended family functions only a handful of times in that span of years, always be choice, never by summons.

Was this summons triggered by the Noxian arrival?

Were Vayne's skills needed?

Questions, questions, questions – and she'd have no answers until she presented herself to her uncle.


A/N: So yeah. As per usual, I'd love it if you shared your thoughts and dropped a comment.