The High Summoner's fingers left small incisions in the table's surface.
"For the last time, honored guest." he said, pushing himself up from the marred table. "The Institute of War does not control enough resources to have an impact on the policies of Noxus and Demacia. We have scarcely enough power to grant neutrality to the city states who seek our services. Bandle City, Bilgewater and Piltover could remain untouched by conflicts from our tenacious diplomacy while war rages between Noxus and Demacia. I cannot try and influence your nations in any way without an all-out war between the city states and the Institute, out of, or during the games. The Institute exists because it is impartial. That impartiality includes not letting any champion get an or any unfair advantages."
His guest coughed lightly, with annoyance clearly upon his face. "But surely, no spectator would noti-" he started.
"The champions would notice!" snarled High Summoner Malkan, turning to face the window. Unlike other times, the lush forest's sight spreading to the horizon didn't calm him. The Demacian kept repeating the same demand for longer than two hours. His composure was cracking. As he contemplated his options about getting rid of the visitor, magical energies coursed through his clenched fists at the obvious choice. "As long as I am in control of the Institute, each champion and Summoner will fight under the rules set by the Tribunal! Cho'gath will never have the chance to feast before the matches, your blasted Vayne's bolts will not be enhanced further, just as Draven doesn't get to bring scores of fans with himself to bounce his blades on them! Am I clear enough?"
"Perfectly." Malkan was sure he could hear the ambassador's teeth grinding, but finally he got his message through his willful ignorance. "I will take my leave, then."
The High Summoner watched as the diplomat marched to the door of his office, his blue cape adorned by Demacia's standard drifting behind him. A grateful sigh left his lips as the man left. Every few months, a representative tried to gain leverage in the Institute by making their champions stronger. So far, Malkan was successful in refusing their demands. He turned back to the forest, lost in his thoughts.
Not that the Institute could decide any major conflict of interests these days. When established, mages from every nation banded together under the banner of the Institute, but hardly enough to stop the war on the continent. The Institute offered the chance to resolve conflicts through the Rift, but they couldn't enforce its usage. It would need at least half a century to get enough influence. The Summoners had to be content of stopping the grand scale usage of destruction magic that threatened to shatter Runeterra and resolving conflicts which the nations chose to decide by a battle in the Rift.
The heart of the problem laid at the champion's attitude towards the Institute of War. None of them were obligated to accept a summon to do battle. They could refuse any fight for any reason; friends they didn't want to fight, causes they didn't believe in or their whims decided whether a match could be held or not. They roamed around the world, deciding what to do according to their personalities. They were more of mercenaries than champions. It was almost impossible for Summoners to plan and train beforehand.
Still with every individual accepted as champion, the Institute grew in power and influence. When joining the League, the champions took an oath to never take up arms against the Summoners in an offensive war. More than a hundred of them joined so far from around the world, with new applicants trying to take the Trials every few months. Some of them were even found worthy.
The latest rage was Riven. The Exile had emerged from the wilderness a few days ago and without a word, she effortlessly took the Trials. When she entered the Institute's halls, she was mistaken for a beggar, but Noxian Summoners recognized her sword in seconds, and soon the Institute was filled with wild speculations. How did she survive for so long? Why didn't she return to Noxus? How come she's here?
Weather and tear took their toll on the champion. Riven's uniform and armor hung in tatters, speaking of years spent away from civilization, but she refused to accept anything from her peers. Her hand clutched the sword she was never seen without harder whenever someone tried to approach her, a silent warning to all. In two days, she completely isolated herself from the crowd.
Her runesword that once instilled fear in the hearts of Ionians and Demacians alike, rivaling the ancient Rakkorian relic-weapons in deadliness, was now shattered. Her hand never left the remains of the sword for more than seconds, her fingers kept caressing the runes inscribed in its blade.
The changes in her appearance were paled by her eyes and composure. Most of Runeterra was peaceful, only the borders of Noxus and Demacia bristled with war. But Riven knew no peace. Her eyes darted at every sudden movement, her taut posture clearly displaying her inner demons. And most of all, the conviction burning in her eyes and leading her steps, what made her the archetype of the Noxian military evaporated during her exile.
But even the bravest fans never had the chance to get to her. When her teleporter crystal – a relic copied from Ezreal's amulet found in Shurima – finally attuned to the Institute's own Nexus, she left just as quietly as she arrived.
Malkan shook his head, and turned to the office's Rift-vision system. The freshly dubbed Broken Blade's debut match was about to start. Riven materialized at the shop, taking her first step towards the top lane.
