Chapter 2

"Prince? Are you ready?"

Jarvan was outside on the balcony silently leaning against the railing while he watched the snow gently float downwards. It was not that cold of a night from what he remembered, easily bearable with even a thin jacket. Nevertheless, cold or moderate temperatures, that was not what made this night special.

"Prince Jarvan?" the voice called out again to no avail.

The Prince swore he saw a glint of light, something, on the walls of their castle. A firm hand shook him out of his trance. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw the hand belonged to his father's seneschal, Xin Zhao.

He had fewer wrinkles back then, and his long black hair had nary a gray strand in its dark locks. This was Snowdown Eve years ago, back when he was just thirteen years old.

The young prince turned around and rested his back on the railing and replied, "I'm ready, Xin. Has father returned yet?"

"Not as of yet. He should be arriving within the next hours."

Jarvan let out a loud sigh and rolled his head back. "Ugh, he's going to be late, like always. This sucks."

The Seneschal's brow furrowed. His calloused hands clapped the young Prince's shoulders in a firm yet professional manner. "Do not speak of your father in such a way. He is a king. He has his duties."

"I know," he grumbled. "It's just that he promised this time. I just hoped..."

"I'm aware I promised," a new voice boomed. "So long as the people hold belief in their king, the worth of the king's word is insurmountable to any gold or treasures he may own."

A small grin tugged at the edge of Xin's face. Jarvan blinked, looked at Xin, then looked at the silhouette. The Seneschal had tricked him. He let out a small laugh and started to make his way to the shadow.

His father, Jarvan remembered how he used to look up at his towering, regal figure. A strong jaw line, bushy eyebrows and dark onyx hair flowed down his head and over his crown not unlike a waterfall. His broad chest was covered by the finest crafted armor of the royal blacksmiths, his neck wrapped with the finest of silk cloaks, both breastplate and cloak bearing the Demacia's national symbol.

"Father! You made it!"

The king gave his son a stoic nod of his head. "I gave you my word that I would, Jarvan."

"But...you're early," the young man said, confused. "What about-"

"I finished all prior duties as quickly as I could."

"But Baron Lichtenstein always takes forever to-"

King Lightshield smirked and interrupted Jarvan with a loud pat on his belt. Metal rang, and from underneath the cloak the hilt of a beautiful sword could be seen. "Sir Lichtenstein is never one to turn a duel down, son."

"And Sir Lightshield is not one to say hello to his wife."

A woman's delicate hands brushed the back of the king's head. Jarvan's eyes lit up. The King chuckled and reached behind him, bringing her forward. Light brown hair, hazel eyes, her perpetually tanned skin, the air of sophistication she carried with every step, Jarvan couldn't help but wonder if she could age. He found out in the recent years how quickly such a demeanor could change. But this, this was perhaps one of his happiest moments in his life. No reason to spoil it.

She smiled at the young prince and pushed his father towards him. "Go on, dear, you promised me you would."

The King instantly tensed up and started to grumble aloud. "It's not how...men, do things, milady. It's not so simple as...it is difficult to just..."

"My sweetest King," she cooed. "Either you do it, or I ask Xin politely to help you do it."

King Lightshield could not help but let out another chuckle, leaving Jarvan completely confused. He walked over to his son, straightened his back and started to speak. "Jarvan. You are my son. You are the next in line for kingship, to be the ruler of Demacia, and you have a long road to travel."

Jarvan rolled his eyes, it was one of those speeches.

"So long as you carry our traditions, so long as you protect Her people, Demacia will forever be ours. Through you, our lineage will continue, and though you can be headstrong, and foolhardy at times, I know where your loyalty will always lie."

He drew back, not sure what brought this on. His mother let out a forced cough and lightly struck King Lightshield's shoulder. "What I am trying to say, is that the path in front of you may be long, but...You will be king, one day. I ask all of my people, to believe in the word of their king, to believe in my word. The word of a man is all he is worth."

King Lightshield shifted forward and knelt down in front of young Jarvan, smiling at his son. "So, I ask you tonight of nights, this question: Will you be a worthy king?"

"Yes father, I will," Jarvan replied, instantly shifting his posture into a perfect vertical line, shoulders squared back his chin up.

"You give me your word?" he held his hand out, expecting Jarvan to grab it.

The Prince did so, clasping his father's hand. "I give you my word."

"Good lad. Then, you have my unwavering faith."

King Lightshield stood up and tugged at Jarvan. "That does not mean I cannot advise you though. Now then, I believe the Crownguards can do with some rescuing."

"Rescuing?"

Jarvan's mother tittered softly, "If I remember correctly, the Crownguard's soiree is going to have many visitors, including a particular Monsieur Laurent and his daughter."

"Oh no..." Jarvan groaned. "Not Fio."

"Oh yes," she chirped back. "Little Fiora." His mother's lower lip rolled into a playful pout. "Don't tell me that you still haven't forgiven her for-"

"No," the young prince grunted, crossing his arms while his lips contorted into a pout.

This elicited a good natured laugh from all three adults, which eventually made Jarvan chuckle. His father motioned to him to follow, and they started to walk.

Jarvan took three steps when he felt a strange pain hit his chest. No, it was strange for him at the time, but he was used to the sensation now: Pain.

He looked down, the head of a crossbow bolt was coated in a slick, crimson liquid and protruded from the center of his chest. With a careful poke, the young prince winced at the sensation of the wooden shaft pushing at his organs and ribcage. It was then he realized that this was his blood, and that this bolt was firmly embedded in him. This was not a part of the memory. Jarvan would have remembered being assassinated, right?

"YOU."

That voice. The prince recognized it immediately. What was he doing here?

Jarvan teetered to and fro, the dreamscape about him melting away into an unrecognizable room. No, not a room...a tent?

"Do you realize that I was there that night, Princeling? Do you know that I could have ended you, just like that?"

"Wh...?" Jarvan gritted his teeth and tore out the crossbow bolt that was still embedded in him. His youthful body started to grow in size, an accelerated growth spurt as his hair grew longer, his muscles expanded and he started to take on the form of his current age. The bolt had pierced his heart, he should have been dead, but this was just a dream. Jarvan was in control, and he knew that voice.

"Swain."

A dark figure surged out of the shadows, a raven screeched at him as the large, monstrous figure of the Grand General stepped forward. His six, beady eyes glared at the Exemplar of Demacia, his talons cricking with no particular rhythm as he barrelled down at the Prince.

Jarvan grabbed at the air, his lance materialized. He was in control of his dream. With a loud bellow, he rushed forward, aiming to pierce his lance through Swain's chest only to have something pluck him from the ground.

A raven grabbed the prince in its beak and slammed him into the wall.

"Everything in your life was handed to you on a silver platter. Everything in life was given to you. Knowing this, you still dared to think you were above others. That, royalty, has its perks. That a self-entitled, spoiled brat, deserves to have the power, the respect that you have."

Multiple golden chains reached up and clamped down on Jarvan's limbs while a hook wormed its way towards his eyes. A quick flick, and Jarvan's eyelids were pierced and forced to watch as Swain advanced on the helpless prince. Scenes of his parents shocked, sobbing even, at the death of their son at the ripe age of thirteen years old. What dream was this?

Swain loomed over Jarvan, his beak opening and closing. "You won't remember this when you wake up, Prince, but I assure you, it is time to finally take what I deserve. Consider this, the beginning of your end."

His beak surged down and pierced Jarvan's stomach. The Grand General of Noxus started to hungrily devour the prince's entrails, the slurps of flesh being torn and swallowed an all too real sensation and sound.

He struggled as much as he could, but he could not break free no matter what he tried. Wracked in pain, Jarvan could not take much more, and finally let out a yell, and woke up.

The prince was awake in his bed, wearing only a pair of comfortable shorts. He grabbed his stomach, checking to see if he was still in one piece, his entire body drenched in sweat. A loud knock on his door was followed by a familiar, feminine voice.

"Prince? Are you alright?" she growled, concern evident in her tone.

Jarvan wiped his face, still shuddering. What dream was...What was he dreaming about? Why did it feel so real?

He grabbed his silk covers and attempted to dry himself quickly before sliding out of bed. Jarvan grabbed a nearby robe and swayed to and fro, a familiar sensation on the Fields of Justice whenever he lost too much blood. What an unsettling dream.

Jarvan opened the door and saw Shyvana standing there, fully dressed in her armor despite it being nearly...What time was it?

"I am fine, Shyvana."

His voice sounded as strong as ever, but she could smell his fear. It clung to her nostrils, the sensation had a sting to it not unlike salt in an open wound. That was the only way to describe this feeling, something so unfamiliar, for what could possibly scare her prince?

"Are you sure, Prince?" She gave him a quick, respectful bow and took a step back to give him more personal space. "I can reschedule your meeting with-"

"Wait, reschedule? Meeting?" Jarvan blinked and shook his head, sending a drop of sweat flying from the tip of his nose. "What time is it, Shyvana?"

"It's almost eight in the morning, your meeting with the Laurent is in two hours," she answered. "I was waiting for you on the training grounds for nearly an hour. When you did not come, I guessed that something changed your mind."

A strange discoloration started to spread across her cheeks and Shyvana bowed once more. "I'm sorry for waking you up. I didn't know you were asleep." She clicked her teeth in quiet thought, trying to think of what else to say before this became any more awkward.

"No, Shyvana," he sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I just...it was a bad dream I had. It's nothing important."

"Are you sure, Prince?"

"Absolutely," Jarvan said in his usual, confident tone. "I will see you on the training grounds in fifteen minutes."

Shyvana clicked her heels together, saluted the prince, and attempted to walk away in the traditional Demacian march. Unfortunately, even after all of these years, she was still not quite accustomed to it and looked more like a crippled duck than anything.

"Shyvana," Jarvan called out. "You can walk normally. If anyone asks, I gave you permission."

She looked back and gave Jarvan a nod before she relaxed and started to walk with her usual quick stride.

Jarvan closed the door and made his way to his personal bathroom. The prince ran the sink and looked in the mirror, staring at himself. He cupped his hands underneath the running water. Once the water started to overflow from his hands, he splashed it on his face, trace amounts of droplets fell to the ground and struck the wall behind him. The prince grabbed one of the towels off of the nearby rack and started to dry his face.

He saw a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye. Jarvan looked around, bewildered. Was someone else here with him? No no, that was just paranoia from the dream.

Jarvan walked out of the bathroom, not aware that his reflection in the mirror did not mimic his actions. Jarvan's reflection smiled, and melted away into the faint image of LeBlanc. With a soundless laugh, she disappeared.

The prince could not help but wonder while he started to dress himself in his armor, just where exactly was that laughter coming from?

In the courtyard of the Darkbourne Hold, the former fortress and home of Boram Darkwill, a crowd of people were gathered around a formal stage. One member of the Raedsel stood guard at each corner more out of tradition and symbolism rather than actual concern for the Grand General.

On the stage, decorated in his full regalia, with a lavishly crafted podium in front of him, Swain seemed to be waiting for something, or someone, specific. He rested his hands on the podium, next to a small, smooth crystal with the simple enchantment of voice amplification. Behind him, the High Council stood in a rigid, militaristic pose, along with one summoner at each end of their row. For what reason the summoners were here, one could only assume. On Swain's right stood Darius, same posture, but he was eyeing every member of the crowd.

The Hand of Noxus' intense glare missed no detail. Within the crowd, several people wearing summoner robes along with small badges that identified themselves as moderators stood, waiting for Swain to speak.

Darius looked right to left, he blinked and did a second cursory scan, and then a third. He kept doing so, looking for any odd signs, until his ninth scan picked up something: a thin man had suddenly appeared in the crowd. Long, blonde hair was barely kept in place by a black top hat, a willowy physique clad in a dapper tuxedo, he looked as though a gentle breeze would carry him away.

The moment he arrived, however, Swain started the address.

"Citizens of Noxus," he said, his helmet not impeding his voice's clarity in the slightest. "It has been a month since the High Council has publicly addressed you."

Darius could not stop staring at this man. Who was he, and why was he so unsettling to the Hand of Noxus?

"Now onto business." Swain leaned onto the podium, allowing a dramatic silence to fall over the crowd. "My first announcement: The crime rate has lowered by another ten percent in this past month due to the efforts of the newly formed Vigiles, formerly headed by Commander Thénardier. This is because the reign of the Demon Jester is finally at an end in Noxus."

Some stories said that Shaco had inhabited Noxus longer than Boram Darkwill himself had. The Demon Jester seemed to stretch throughout the history of Noxus, but with no discernible explanation as to how he came to be, or why he was here. What was unfortunate, however, was Darkwill's apparent lack of care for the exploits of the jester. No one knew when the jester would strike next, his game never cared for the social, influential or economic status of his targets, and he could strike three times in the same day or once a year.

"Unfortunately," the Grand General said before any revelry could be had. "I must also report that Commander Thénardier has given his life for Noxus. He died serving his country. Allow me to reassure you: his replacement shall be no less adequate than he."

Darius had heard of how Thénardier's grisly death. He kept on fighting to the end, though, despite having several jack-in-the-box shoved down, and up, into at least five orifices.

Swain looked to his right and gave a slight nod to the summoner. The familiar hum of magic, and a burst of blue light erupted.

Loud, thundering footsteps announced the summoned being's presence.

"You may applaud for our esteemed champion, and newest commander of the Vigiles unit, Sion," Swain crowed.

The undead champion appeared on stage and cast a glance at Darius. Despite the fact that his exposed jaw was in a permanent smile, Darius could tell that Sion was very pleased with this promotion due to the faint glint in his friend's eye. This was not unexpected, he was excited about it the night before.

Which reminded Darius, Draven kept annoying them about asking him what he was going to do today in regards to the assembly. They never did find out what it was that Draven was so excited about since he kept getting sidetracked by his mug. After their fifteenth beer, they had to drag Draven's drunken ass out of the pub the moment the "Glorious Executioner" started to try and make out with his glorious reflection in said polished beer mug.

Sion made his way over and stood next to Darius while a round of applause rippled out from the crowd, including that particular man in a top hat.

"In terms of law enforcement, Sion and his Vigiles will not be alone."

The undead man's brow rose, the final bits of his eyebrow denoting his confusion.

"Shaco was not thwarted by the lone efforts of the Vigiles. It was through combined efforts of the Vigiles and of the elite Vigiles Noctes division that the Jester was subdued. The Vigiles Noctes are led by Commander Emilio Leuko. Speaking of whom..."

Swain motioned at the crowd, and pointed at the man Darius had been staring at the entire time. "Commander. Your report."

"Of course, Grand General," the strange man said in a light, slightly off accent. His voice seemed to be naturally amplified and had no apparent need for a crystal. It must have been his own magic. Every step he took with his lanky legs carried him a fair distance. The crowd parted for him as he approached the stage, a smile on his willowy face. He stopped at the foot of the stage and looked up at Swain, the imposing figure of the Grand General easily dwarfing him.

"Dude looks like a chick," Sion grunted to Darius.

"He is just skinny."

"You kidding? Guy's got wider hips than me. That ain't normal."

Darius shot the zombie a strange look, not sure what he was talking about before he refocused his attention on this Leuko fellow. He knew the man well enough through documents and general military knowledge. It was said that any time Swain truly needed to consult with a commander, a strange man who looked so frail that a sword would most certainly snap his wrists in his grip, would appear. Darius had never seen him in person until now.

"I'm pleased to say that I have nothing to say in regards to my report," he said with a chuckle. Emilio suddenly flicked his finger upwards and bowed towards Swain as the Grand General patiently waited. "For why say, when I can show?"

"Yack yack yack, get to the point," Sion grumbled.

"The point, my comrade in arms, is this," the thin man said in a playful tone, having heard the undead man's grumblings. A surge of blackish magic erupted from his hands as he held them out to his sides. Two men appeared, completely bewildered by the sudden shift.

"Two more terrorists, my Grand General, for you. Our summoners will interrogate them, see what they have to offer as we process their belongings and notes."

Swain gave a slight nod to the man. "You have evidence then?"

"Yes," Emilio replied in a confident tone. He pointed at both men simultaneously as he said, "These are, without a doubt, agents of Draythe Darkwill."

Draythe Darkwill.

Darius' teeth ground against one another in annoyance. The eldest son of the late Boram Darkwill. Draythe was not like Keiran, Draythe was more slippery, a lot less physically fit than his younger brother but he had a natural talent for magic. Just a week after Swain's ascension, Draythe took all loyal followers and disappeared. How he was able to disappear without a trace, it was hard to say.

The week after that, rumors of a possible rebellion was whispered in the street. The week after, they started to strike from the shadows. A true coward's instinct to rely on hit and run tactics. The extent of the damage their attacks caused was kept low, in order to not panic the populace. This was what helped spark the reformation of the Vigiles force into an actual institute of law enforcement, and helped create the Vigiles Noctes.

Darius reached up to stroke his chin, he was admittedly somewhat impressed. His eye caught a strange reflection. For a single moment, he could swear that a woman was standing in place of where Emilio was. He squinted, and saw it was Emilio standing there once more. Sion's previous comment could not leave his mind. For someone like Sion to head the Vigiles made sense to Darius. For someone like Emilio? He did not trust the man's shifty eyes.

"Excellent work, commander. A much appreciated demonstration of your effectiveness," Swain affirmed in a pleased tone. "Guards, apprehend them. Commander. On your way."

While two members of the Raedsel moved towards the still shocked men while Emilio bowed towards the Grand General in an over exaggerated gesture.

An audience member unexpectedly spoke up. It was a summoner from the Institute, most likely one of the reporters that came to record the assembly. "What evidence do you have?"

Emilio raised an eyebrow while looking up at Swain, his playful smile still evident on his face. "Do I have permission to address this question, Grand General?"

"Yes."

The man spun around while snapping his fingers, the two men disappearing in a puff of black smoke. He regarded the woman who asked the question in a cordial tone, "Now, my dear, how may I assist you?"

"Noxus is well known for arresting without due cause or warrant, under Boram's rule. Are you continuing such tactics, guilty until proven innocent? What evidence do you have of their guilt?"

He wagged his finger as he replied, "What you say is absolutely true. That was how matters were. But!" Emilio fell backwards and onto his shadow, quickly disappearing from view. The audience was not sure as to where he had gone to until he spoke again. The man's arm was around the summoner's shoulder as he rose from her shadow. "This is something that our esteemed Grand General wishes to change. Let's be honest, you and I, Boram's form of law enforcement was...awful. Abysmal, really. How many people suffered because of his ridiculousness? And!"

Emilio reached over and stroked her chin, pulling back her hood to reveal a woman in her late twenties, with medium length chestnut hair. "Not only to top that off, how much crime, how much corruption was unmoderated, uncared for? There is strength, and then there's spitting on the law of Noxus. More order, less chaos. This is a time that Noxus needs stability, not hedonistic, nonsensical anarchy. "

"But don't you fear you'll resemble Demacian policies too much if you try and-"

"Demacians tend to be living," Emilio shot back, still smiling all the while. "They also like to consume food and breathe air. Should we be the polar opposite as to how they are in every way and stop breathing, eating and generally living, darling? Just because we have decided that a little more law enforcement is for the greater safety of the general populace does not suddenly make us as rigid or ridiculous as the Demacians. That is why Sion, or I, are not the only ones in charge of our Vigiles and law enforcement. Any General, any member of the High Council, are the heads of Noxian law. If there is an occurrence such as...Mm, let me use the example of our esteemed general, Darius, and his solution for dissidents. The point of the Vigiles Noctes would be, and is, to assure that he does not abuse this power of his, while the point of the Vigiles would be to apprehend him if necessary."

A quick glance at Darius, Emilio's playful tone did not falter, his eyes lit with a strange enthusiasm. "Or if he deems me suspicious, he can simply remove me as he sees fit. It's a very controlled system in this way. Stay in line with the law, and you're assured safety. You wish to oppose the law, well, you oppose Noxus."

The summoner moved to ask him more questions, but a light chuckle and a gentle caress of her chin silenced her. "I would love to speak to you more, but I can tell from the Grand General's stare that I need to get back to work, and quickly."

The strange man flicked his wrist whimsically, making a card slip out. He placed it on the palm of the summoner's hand as he cooed, "I'll be available for further questions at noon, at this location, tomorrow. A little frente a frente, if you wish, answer whatever lingering questions you may have left. Farewell, mi amor."

With that, Emilio started to make his way out of the crowd, his lanky frame easily gliding past people. Darius allowed a frown scrawl across his face. Suspicious little man, that Emilio was.

With that done, Swain cleared his throat and started to talk about the next issue at hand. "The unemployment rate has been lowered by another full percent, meaning that for the first time since the end of our Ionian occupation, we have hit an all time high in employment. The opening of more factories have created many new job opportunities, as well as..."

Noxus had undergone in recent months thanks to Swain's rule, as well as a staggering improvement in the city's living conditions. With less random murders happening, more strict moderation of pollution and waste treatment, only few threats remained within the walls. After so long, Noxus was finally recovering from the abysmal failure that was the Ionian war. A united Noxus would easily be able to rule the land of Valoran, as it rightfully should. Under Swain's rule, such a dream was not far fetched.

However, that did not mean things were otherwise 'perfect'. Draythe was not the only "problem" Noxus had.

"...which includes a slight reduction of taxes for every citizen of Noxus. In the following months, the restoration of our older buildings, and with the reconstruction of Noxus' walls will begin. These efforts alone will help bring in hundreds of new jobs and job opportunities. Masters of architecture, runic inscriptions and artificers will be needed along with their apprentices, construction workers and artisans. Skilled work jobs will see a rise as we continue to shape Noxus into Her true form. This does bring up an issue, in regards to the borders of Noxus, that I will address soon. Another matter needs to be attended to first."

Swain held his hand out to his right. One of the summoners on the stage walked forward, a small burst of light blitzed out from his hand. When it died down he held a piece of paper that he handed over to the Grand General.

Swain took a quick look at the paper and nodded his head. The Grand General held it up as he said, "This is the report on the investigation that Lady Katarina Du Couteau underwent due to her poor performance in the other day's match and her 'supposed resistance' against fighting the Ionians. The result is as follows: She is, under oath, not a traitor to Noxus. Rest your hearts."

This statement seemed a little odd. Investigations by the League usually took weeks, even months, to complete. Who was it that Swain knew to be able to pull such strings in order to expedite the investigation? It was of no matter, the Du Couteau family were once an honorable family. The only reason he had not executed the lot of them was because of his own respect for the AWOL General Marcus Du Couteau, perhaps the only other man that could have matched Swain for the position of Grand General.

Such was life though, sometimes tragedies did happen, even to good families. First it was Cassiopeia, then it was Marcus, then Katarina started to spend more time with those disgusting Demacians, in particular that holier-than-thou Garen Cr-

"This however, does not exonerate Riven," Swain said with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "She has openly stated that she refuses to come back to Noxus, and to defect to the Ionians. If she steps foot in Noxus, she will be detained and brought to the High Command. Onto more important business. There are two issues that remain that I must speak of before I deem this address adjourned."

Swain handed the paper back to the summoner, but kept his hand extended. He swung it over and pointed eastwards. "In three days I will visit the slums. They have moved into our very sewage system. An entire underground network of tunnels home to vermin, derelicts, disease, corpses and unproductive members of society. Boram allowed such conditions to thrive, he allowed for the rise of Mordekaiser to come to pass. I will not. In three days time I will personally visit the Master of Metal and I will stop his expansion once and for all."

The slums had once occupied less than a twentieth of Noxus in the past. Before Boram's death, the slums had expanded to nearly 1/8th the size of Noxus. The civil war that erupted afterwards made them expand to 1/6th of Noxus. It was a growing concern for the state of Noxus, never mind the fact that the denizens of the slums now had a ruler of their own. The king of squalor, the Master of Metal was conquering from within the walls of the beloved city itself, but no one dared challenge him, physically or verbally, not even Boram himself.

Since Swain's rise, however, this expansion had come to a complete halt, as though Mordekaiser were waiting, gauging the Grand General's next move.

"Citizens of Noxus, this is just the next in many steps. This is not a kingdom of dirt, despite what some critics may say, but a nation of fertile soil. We will fight, we will strive and we will thrive, no matter the obstacles we may encounter, for we are forever strong."

Darius bellowed, "Forever strong," the moment Swain finished his sentence.

The audience quickly chanted back in unison, "Forever strong."

"Now, for the final item in this address. It is my belief that Noxus has not had...recreation, in some time."

'Recreation?'

"The Fleshing arena has been unused for far too long. I am not reviving the Fleshing events themselves, but it is my belief that some revelry is in order. The people of Noxus have not properly celebrated my ascendency. This is a crime in of itself. That is why in a week from today, the Grand Triumph will be hosted for three full days. For such an event, I wondered who would be best fit to host such games, such revelry?"

Darius scrunched his brow, he was not aware of this event in the slightest.

"There was only one answer to this question."

The familiar hum of summoning magic perked his ears. Who were they bringing in? The only Noxians who cared about showmanship were LeBlanc, that slippery woman, and-

"Thaaaaaaat's right, boys, girls, men and bee-yoo-tee-ful women! It's everyone's favorite!"

Draven stepped onto the stage, a voice amplification crystal in one hand while he swung his trademark axes in his other carelessly about.

"Draven's puttin' on a show for all of ya!"

The crowd was deathly silent at first. This was quickly replaced by raucous cheering as it roared out from the audience in a deafening blast, easily overpowering the light groan that escaped Darius' lips.

Outskirts of Demacia

In the fields of a farm, a twisted beast finally stopped squirming. Multiple crossbow bolts made their marks in his limbs along with what appeared to be a small tree trunk having impaled itself through his chest and pinned him into the ground. The creature's pathway of destruction was marked by withered crops and dead grass, the creature had the innate ability to absorb the life essence of any vegetation that it trod upon.

An emaciated creature, with eyes nearly shoved to the back of its sockets, skin tightly wrapped across bone to the point of nearly tearing, it resembled a gaunt skeleton in shape with fangs each the size of a human finger. It was unmistakable as to what this creature was: a wendigo.

Natural wendigos were more or less extinct in Valoran, partly due to being destroyed by their own prey, humans, and partly because they were fairly suicidal due to their cannibalistic diet and if they became too hungry, ate one another.

It was an unfortunate fact that wendigos themselves were nearly impossible to kill, since they themselves were incorporeal spirits. The human host had to be killed and then the spirit exorcised from the body. Afterwards they would become more or less harmless unless they were summoned by magic or desperation. It would have been a routine monster slaying, if it were not for the many problems that it caused.

This was a summoned wendigo, meaning that a ritual was needed for it. The rituals for summoning wendigos were not only outlawed but incredibly complex, time consuming, and the creatures themselves were completely uncontrollable. They had no sense of loyalty to anything but their sense of hunger and would always turn on their summoners. The only feasible reason one would create a wendigo was to inflict one of the worst forms of both mental and physical pain on an unfortunate victim, and they would need a lot of preparation time and space to do so.

But the problems did not end there. This wendigo, prior to the transformation, was a high ranking member of witch hunters. She only knew this because of the scant facial features that remained coupled with his attire. All trainers tended to have one protege, meaning that the absence of the youth was only a sign of more trouble.

And to top all of that was the path of dead grass that made a straight beeline to one of their haunts. It was for the reason that Vayne was on her way to the haunt to refurbish her equipment when she found the obvious trail of destruction it had caused and was able to track it down.

Vayne was luckily able to stop the creature before it could attack the village, which only begged the question: Why did it not attack sooner? Yet another factor consider. She reached into her pouch and withdrew a vial from within. With a light pop, the cork was freed and she poured the contents onto the corpse's head. Vayne casually tossed the vial away, then took out a piece of flint and a small rock from the same pouch, struck the two together and allowed the sparks to fall towards the wendigo's face.

The creature lit up instantly, a horrified farmer looking on in complete shock that she had effectively set fire to his field. Before he could say anything, she turned to him and said, "Bring more kindling. Its blood is poisonous, your fields will be contaminated if you do not burn them all."

"B-but...my harvest..."

Vayne put the rock and flint away, and reached into her pouch once more. This time, she took out a cheque book and a pen. With a few quick strokes, she tore out the cheque and handed it to the farmer with a gloved hand.

"I apologize for the loss of your fields."

Without saying a word more, Vayne left the stunned farmer and the funeral pyre. There was still the biggest problem of all to address: The haunt itself.

The haunts of witch hunters were secluded, secretive lodges. They were mostly used for when a hunter, or several of them, needed rest or to meet with others and needed to do so safely. The only people who knew of these haunts were the hunters themselves, and even then, only the leader of each conclave of hunters knew the locations of another conclave's haunt. All of the secrecy and complexity of a haunt's location was meant to keep these places as safe havens. In the inner circles of hunters, there were few secrets kept as well as those of their haunts.

How then, was the security of such a hidden location breached, never mind located?

Vayne had to find out. Too many factors, too much coincidence. She made her way towards the entrance of a gnarled tree, the footprints of dead grass an all too easy tell.

Though such a location might be obvious at first sight, the true secret lay beneath the rock. Vayne pressed the proper rock downwards and twisted it counter clockwise, which fired a spring and unlocked a secret hatch. easily navigated through the maze of catacombs under the earth, crossbow drawn and readied to fire. It was pitch black in the haunt, all forms of light extinguished. The familiar, heavy smell of copper hit Vayne's nostrils, further confirming her suspicions that the sanctity of the haunt was desecrated.

A quick tap on near the lens of her glasses lit the room up to her. If she were not so used to grotesque sights, if her stomach were any less steeled, what lit up before her would have made her too nauseous to comprehend what was being seen.

In the center of the room were the remains of a young girl, one she recognized as a trainee from her conclave, and numerous crimson glyphs, all bloodied linework started from her corpse . That only meant the trainer that had gone up was Frederick von man was a specialist in close quarters combat, very good with knives.

Vayne carefully made her way over, dragging her heel across the ground to break a single line of the runic writing in order to disarm any potential threat that the ritual may still have, out of habit more than actual danger, and stared down at the young girl's corpse. Entire chunks of her were devoured, Vayne could see the teeth marks of a person ripping into her skin, Vayne could see the bruises from struggling against her attacker along the remains of her bicep. Even the girl's face was torn apart, her lower jaw hanging by thin strands muscle. Despite the ravaged condition, Vayne could see that her eyes, the remnants of her cheeks and her upper lip were contorted in absolute fear.

Despite this scene, that was not what unnerved Vayne. There should be a magical trace from the ritual itself, yet there was none. There was no magical residue of any sort. The girl herself could not have been dead for longer than a few hours, depending on how long the wendigo change itself took, how long the struggle was, or how long it took to set up the ritual. So many factors that made this scene suspicious...

A casual look around the room, with runes literally lining every wall, every face, even the ceiling, drawn in blood, showed Vayne that whoever had enough time to do this, could have easily summoned a more powerful, more destructive creature. A wendigo took a lot of time in order to reach its maximum threat, and whoever did this had more than enough time to summon any more powerful creature, even a simple golem would have been more effective than a starving wendigo.

That meant only one thing: This was a warning. The lives of two people to act as a damn warning.

But from who? Who could have access to this sort of hellish ritual? How was this location discovered?

This haunt was no longer safe, and perhaps the other haunts were not as well. Were these two chosen by accident, or did they die for a purpose?

Vayne and her hunters had work to do. First things first, she needed to burn the corpse, destroy the haunt and then call her brethren in and relate to them the news.

The girl would be buried here, under tons of rock and rubble, and...

Vayne let out a sigh. She made her way over to the girl's corpse and drew out a silver crossbow bolt from her quiver. A quick stab into the girl's chest to reassure she was not a trap in waiting, then Vayne worked on freeing her hands. With a few harsh jabs, the organs were severed and allowed Vayne to fold the fleshy remains of her arms over her chest. A quick pass of the witch hunter's hand over her face closed the girl's eyes and removed the look of fear.

It was a pointless gesture, yes, but this was something Vayne could not stop herself from doing. Vayne instantly reorganized her priorities. Burn the corpse, destroy the haunt, relate the news to her other hunters, and then?

Vayne would find who was responsible for this, and put this very bolt through their head.

Within the early hours of the night, in the Darkbourne Hold, there was no trace of light save for the glimmer of a single candle.

In his bedroom, Swain sat with his back towards his desk. The desk's face was covered with various maps and notes, the light from the candles barely more than a glimmer. Despite the low light source, a torn envelope could be seen, a wax seal depicting the Institute's symbol broken. The letter was nowhere to be found.

He seemed to be waiting for someone in the dull light, Beatrice restlessly moving to and fro on her favorite perch, the Grand General's shoulder plate, which was the only piece of armor he wore now. His facial features could be barely made out in the dimmed room, but it was evident that his face now lacked any wrinkles a man his age should have, and the black veins that originally plagued his lower jaw had disappeared without a trace.

"Hail, Grand General," a familiar Deceiver's voice cooed. She appeared out of thin air, appearing before him in her usual elegant splendor, her golden staff held comfortably behind her waist. "Do forgive me for popping out like that, I was bothered by a certain jester."

Swain's red eyes narrowed, a harsh breath left his lips. "Matron. Can you handle him?"

"Jericho, darling, of course I can," LeBlanc said with a titter. "So long as he gets his game, he will play that game, no matter the rules, no matter the risks, just for the sake of playing the game. Granted, I'm surprised he managed to make the rock beast actually laugh, but that is no matter. Slowly but surely, he will become of greater, and greater use to us. There is no risk for me or for the Rose in this endeavor."

The Grand General let out a snort and nodded his head. "Fine. Just be wary."

"But of course, dear."

"The rest of your report."

LeBlanc swiveled her staff and brought it in front of her as she detailed to the Grand General the rest of her report.

"My agents have also spotted the moonlight crusader, Diana, along the roads all over Valoran. She's been weeding out banditry and knavishness all about with no discrimination. She has also been able to recruit some of our own people under her religion. Cassiopeia, unfortunately, had another fit today, so any and all information I should have gained from her has been delayed, and as for the Fallen One, that is the jester's next task: To find the chink in her armor. I'm still looking over Sivir's assets and seeing what offer Emilio can make, and he will be visiting the Hasturs soon. Vladimir has been unreachable for any comment, I will continue to monitor him, and last but not least, Singed is still in the throes of thought about your proposal, and wishes to be undisturbed for another month to allow him to finish his workload. That, is the end of my report."

"You spoke of the Heretic. Why."

The Deceiver straightened her posture, her smile still on her face. "I believe that with a little coaxing and a little convincing, Diana will be an easy addition to our forces. I believe it would help serve our best interests, even if it is for a short term. Point her at our enemy, give her the resources, and watch the little toy go."

"Good."

Swain stared at LeBlanc with an unnerving glare. Beatrice mimicked her master, her six red, beady eyes staring at the woman.

"...Jericho, dear, are you fatigued?" LeBlanc asked in a curious tone. She tilted her head, a flirtatious glint in her eyes. "I believe you did not sleep when I asked you to do so."

"Sleep is relatively redundant these days for me," he replied in a gruff tone.

"Now now, Jericho, don't get snippy with me. You know sleep helps solidify thoughts and ideas, and helps reinvigorate the body and mind." LeBlanc's lips parted to reveal a toothy grin, a glint in her eyes spoke of her intentions. "If you are not tired as of yet, I suppose we could consider some...heavy, recreation?"

The room went silent as Swain continued to stare at her. He rose a hand up, waved her off and said, "It is a good suggestion. Go. Get some rest."

LeBlanc blinked. Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed and for a brief moment, she looked peeved at the fact she was just snubbed. Her implacable, porcelain mask quickly reformed itself. The Deceiver curtsied towards Swain and took a step backwards. Violet magic started to swirl her while she spoke. "As you w-"

The Deceiver's lithe, sensuous body was slammed against the wall, she only had the time to take a breath when a monstrous hand reached up and cupped her jaw gently.

"What's wrong, Evaine? Bird got your tongue?"

The black wings of Swain's raven form quickly started to wrap around them as he pulled her towards him into an embrace. Her face actually showed shock at what had just happened. "Jericho...Did...did you just...?"

Swain's six eyes started to hum with a sickly green magic, changing his eyes from their crimson color into a brilliant emerald.

LeBlanc burst out laughing. Her hand quickly snaked itself around to the back of the Grand General, then she tightened the embrace between them. Her bust was pressed against his chest, she could feel the taut muscles underneath the loose nightshirt he wore. "My my, Jericho, so you did catch on. Here I was, thinking that it had been so long you forgot how t-"

"My dove..." Swain reached up with his free hand, his fingers having been twisted into talons, and started to softly stroke her hair. "I meant every word I said today. It has been a while since I have made time for recreation."

A coy giggle escaped her lips. Her staff disappeared in a puff of ethereal, purple butterflies. She tilted her head, looking him in all six of his eyes as she asked, "Well then, Grand General, I suppose I should let you take the lead, yes? Apres vous, mon beau corbeau."

Even in the dead of night, when no sensible being would be awake, something scurried in the sewers and tunnels of Noxus. It looked like a rat, but was far too large to be considered a normal rodent. Especially with the way it had weaved and maneuvered itself around the sleeping bums of the Noxian slums before slipping down a sewer grate, then ran past the still awake tramps and derelicts that used these sewers themselves for their own means. The undead sentinels that stood at every junction continued to stare out beyond them with hollowed eyes.

The rat was looking for something, and though the castaway people did not notice him, the undead soldiers most certainly did. Instead of reacting violently to him, they simply watched as he scurried by them, then quietly went back to looking over their designated posts. They were the guards against would be intruders and acting as a grim reminder that their lord, and protector, was watching over all of them.