"And here is the guest wing we've designated for you," she finished, gesturing with a wide arm to the hall before them.

"Thank you once again for your hospitality," he said, with another bow. His two companions standing behind him followed suit.

Lux smiled exuberantly. "No problem. Demacia is very honored to harbor the Kinkou while they remain on the mainland."

"Nonetheless," he persisted calmly, "we will make arrangements to reimburse you when these difficult times have passed."

"Not at all!" she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Prince Jarvan would be scandalized if such esteemed guests felt the need to pay for their lodging. Please, your work is important here and Demacia is only too happy to aid you."

Shen stared at her for a single moment of silence, before nodding. "Very well, if it would dishonor your prince."

"Have you any long-distance communication devices?" asked the Fist of Shadow, moving to stand next to him. "There is someone we must contact."

"But of course," answered Lux, smiling again. "Please, get settled. I'll handle it."

The three ninja bowed one last time, uttering another thank you. She waved them off as she turned to go, moving down the long halls with a slight skip in her step. It was so interesting to have guests around every now and then, despite the circumstances.

The Eye of Twilight, with his seriousness, seemed intimidating, but she had quickly learned that he wasn't cold – only curt. The Lady of Luminosity had found that it was Akali to be feared. There was a predatory poise to her that set Lux on edge despite the pleasantries. It was all-too familiar, and it brought her back to darker times in her life.

Luckily the Heart of the Tempest was there to soften to whole ensemble. She knew it was a tad disrespectful, but it was so difficult to take his energetic displays of power without finding them just a little endearing. It was probably because he was a yordle. Did that make her racist?

Normally, bringing guests around was left to a royal aide or someone more suitable to mundane activities than she, but the Kinkou were a special case, and Prince Jarvan had wanted to see that they were properly looked after. Fellow champions of the League were very prolific, and no one wanted to disrespect a visitor to their state.

"Please bring a telephone to those in the west guest wing," she called idly, flagging down a servant. He nodded and hurried off.

The mage hummed to herself, bobbing her head to an imaginary beat. The atmosphere in the castle had been heavy for quite awhile, but it was important to stay positive – at least on the outside. It wouldn't do anyone any good to mope, especially not for morale. She would leave the outward nervousness, the pacing and the anxiety to all the others. And speaking of...

"Luxanna Crownguard, seeking permission to enter," she called, knocking on the huge doors that enclosed Demacia's War Room, enchanted so that no noise could escape from the inside. They swung open after a brief pause.

She entered, Xin Zhao slamming them shut behind her as she approached the central table over which a map of Valoran was spread. Her brother and the prince were both bent over it, pointing here and there, saying this and that.

"The Terror of the Void was last seen approaching the Howling Marsh," Garen was saying, tracing the path from the Institute with one finger. "We have no information yet as to his intentions, but we do have reason to believe he may seek to deceive our scouts and turn eye towards Demacia."

Prince Jarvan nodded, grasping his chin between his index finger and thumb. "And what of the rest of the Voidborn? Were they with him?"

"Not as our scouts have seen," her brother answered gravely.

She took that brief lull in their conversation as an opportunity to sidle up beside him, tapping on his elbow to catch his attention. Garen shot her a brief, inquiring glance.

"Some guardsman in the capital have reported suspicious undertakings in the back alleys," she told him. "The remains of small, strange creatures have been found in several condemned homes. There is evidence of dark magic involved, but no arrests yet."

"Could it be a Demacian sect of that loathsome Cult of the Void?" asked the prince, frowning. "Any activity from them now would be hardly surprising."

"The captain of the city watch suspects as much," Lux replied, "but again, there is nothing concrete. He advises we stay on our toes."

"This is worrisome," remarked Xin Zhao, from across the table. "If a group of League champions could not defeat the Terror of the Void by himself, I fear for the lives of our citizens should such a monstrosity be summoned here."

"Quinn should be working with the city watch right now to investigate the matter," she offered, hands on her hips. "She told me that Valor will be in the skies almost constantly for the next three days keeping an eye out for suspicious activity."

"A fair attempt, but we cannot allow the entire capital's security to rest on the wings of one bird," said Garen, brows furrowing. "This isn't even accounting for whether or not the rest of Demacia might fall victim to the same such malevolent intent. There could be more factions outside the capital."

"That is, however, assuming that it is indeed the work of Void occultists," interjected the prince. "Do not forget, we know nothing as yet."

"But we know everything," said a feminine voice, "or at least, more than you."

Lux tensed, ready to reach for the dagger in her boot. Xin was already lunging for his spear – but her brother grabbed him by the arm and yanked him backwards. Someone slunk out of the shadows.

"Akali," she breathed out, in partial relief.

"How did you get in here?" demanded Prince Jarvan imperiously, crossing his arms.

"I have my ways," answered the Fist of Shadow vaguely. "How is not important."

"We do not look kindly on intruders in the War Room," growled the Seneschal, almost baring his teeth. "Simply because you are our honored guests, do not presume to go where you please."

"Let her be," ordered the prince, an arm rising to hold Xin Zhao back from where he seemed primed to lunge again. "The Kinkou are well-respected and the times are strange." He glanced over to Akali. "I trust you have your reasons?"

"It was urgent," came her unruffled response. Her sharp glance slid side to side, surveying the room. "Shen advised I observe your customs, but I felt the relay of this information imperative."

"And so?" prompted Garen impatiently, frowning.

The Kinkou kunoichi placed her hands on her hips, shifting her weight onto her back foot. "We have just contacted the Void Walker, Kassadin. His followers have been monitoring the Void occultists, and they report a very sudden and strong flare in activity amongst them, all across Valoran."

"Then it is indeed the cult," murmured the prince worriedly.

"In addition, they have also been tracking the movements of Cho'Gath since news of his escape reached them," she continued. "According to Kassadin, he is fast approaching the Ironspike Mountains."

"Assuming this information is accurate, Cho'Gath has bypassed both Demacia and Noxus completely," noted Prince Jarvan. "We are undoubtedly the most influential city-states within reach, so then where is his destination?"

"Looking at the map," said Lux, peering over at the northern end of the continent, "there are three likelihoods: Freljord, Piltover, and Zaun."

"It is so," agreed Akali, nodding.

"Now the question is which, and why," she finished. "Neither we can say."

"What shall we do?" asked Xin Zhao, urgently. "Certainly we do not intend to stand by while the threat of the Voidborn looms over all of Runeterra."

The prince shook his head, grimacing. "Until Demacia is attacked, I cannot guarantee military action. I fear what opportunism lurks in the hearts of those treacherous Noxians."

"But we can't stand around and do nothing," Lux protested. "The whole of Valoran could be overtaken before we know it if we don't do something now."

"You won't have to commit troops to this," interrupted Akali, cutting in. "The Kinkou Order simply requests access to your resources in order to aid the Preservers of Valoran against the Voidborn."

"Resources meaning?" inquired her brother.

"Transportation, communications, and a few of your champions to dispatch to a... task force, of sorts. Ionia will also commit champions to the cause."

"What, then?" pressed the prince. "You would take our strongest soldiers? It would be nearly as damaging."

"It is true a single champion is worth at least a hundred men," she conceded with a tilt of her head. "But that is how we hope to end this conflict with as little bloodshed as possible. A single team of champions will be much more potent than an army of soldiers – particularly, if we can reach agreements with other factions to lend us their aid as well."

"It would indeed be more palatable to the other factions," admitted Garen, glancing sideways at the prince. "If any sought to take advantage of the situation, their militaries would still be intact to defend."

"So you're in agreement, then?"

Prince Jarvan was silent for a moment, stewing over the implications of the deal. Lux watched him with interest.

In her view, it was the best possible offer. Everything Akali had said seemed accurate, but being a prodigious mage did not necessarily make her a prodigious strategist, and she didn't presume to know what far-reaching complications there could be.

"It's agreed," he said at last, reaching out a hand to meet hers in a firm shake. "How many do you require?"

The Fist of Shadow crossed her arms, head tilted slightly as if in recollection.

"We would request two champions of you," she answered after a time. "No more and no less."

The prince grimaced – strangely, in a way that Lux wasn't sure she quite understood – before nodding once. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes.

"Garen and Luxanna Crownguard, I dispatch you to their cause."

The Lady of Luminosity blinked, then glanced quickly over to her brother who seemed equally as taken aback. Then his expression shifted – a swift transformation into steel.

"It would be my honor," he said, arm crossing over his chest.

"And mine," she added hastily with a bow of her head.

"Make ready your things," ordered Prince Jarvan, "and when you go forth and strike down our enemies, carry Demacia in your hearts."

"Always," they replied simultaneously.

"The Kinkou thank you for your cooperation," Akali told them, bowing deeply in the way that only Ionians seemed to. She seemed to back away as she straightened up – melting into the shadows, Lux realized with a start. Was that how she had entered in the first place? "We will discuss further arrangements with you shortly."

Then she was gone – and they were left standing in the War Room in silence.

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Shuriman nights were cold.

His time spent wandering there in the lull between matches had taught him this. Called from a different plane of existence to this one, nowhere else on Runeterra seemed quite as close to home.

Nasus watched the crackling fire contemplatively, a large cloak settled about his shoulders. The sand seemed ablaze in its orange glow. The effect was incredibly strange in the dissonance between sight and sensation. Sivir sat beside him, wrapped up in a burlap blanket. A fair distance away was the campfire of the DuCouteau siblings. The elder had agreed to follow him so long as he promised aid to her sister. She was asleep currently, clinging tight to that very sister coiled around her so that her cool blood would stay warmed.

"It's been a while s-since I set foot in Shurima," huffed the Battle Mistress, a slight chatter in her teeth. "I don't remember it being this cold at night."

"The last time you were in Shurima, I expect you prepared the proper attire to deal with it," he replied evenly, stirring the embers with the butt of his halberd.

"I guess that's true," she muttered, looking sideways at him. "You're not freezing?"

The librarian shot her a wry glance. "Short as it is, this fur does me well enough."

Sivir rolled her eyes.

"And those two?" she asked, jerking her head in the direction of the other pair.

"Shared body-warmth, I believe." He paused, thinking for a moment on his answer when she raised an eyebrow at him. "Rather, the younger sister must be an effective insulator for the older," he amended.

"I need some of that," she muttered under her breath, and he could see the motion of her rubbing her arms from beneath the blanket.

The Curator of the Sands glanced briefly at her, considering his options. It was a semi-intimate gesture – but then, it wouldn't do to let her fall ill. He raised one arm, opening his cloak.

"Here," he said. "My warmth should be sufficient."

The Battle Mistress gave a start, gazing up at him disbelievingly. "Are you telling me to cuddle with you?"

"If that is what you wish to call it," he answered placidly, steady eyes upon her.

She scowled at him, looking away and then back again, before rolling her eyes. The mercenary reluctantly tucked herself underneath his open arm, leaning into his side as he lowered it and covered the both of them with his cloak. A spark leapt from the fire, and he stirred it again idly.

"Are you warm now?" he asked, and against his side he could feel the movements of her nodding head.

A long period of quiet passed, the air filled with nothing but the crackling of flames and the muffled cries of wildlife in the distance.

How had they gotten here, in the midst of the Shurima desert with nothing but the open sky above their heads? It seemed only moments ago that they'd been dashing through smoke-filled halls, evading all manner of miscreants run amok, but it must have been at least a few days. Nasus took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he felt, suddenly, very tired.

The Institute of War had fallen to pieces – destroyed by the very creatures it had harbored. Its proud structure had finally collapsed beneath the weight of its arrogance.

Where should he go from here?

What duty did he owe to the Institute, or the League, or even Piltover's Finest to see this journey through? What would he lose if he simply abandoned all of them that very moment?

He missed his books – but they had burned. He missed his brother – but he missed the one of a bygone era, instead of the raving vessel that had by now undoubtedly escaped. As he counted the ways, he found he had very little these days to grieve.

But then Nasus glanced down – at the head of dark hair leaning into his side. And he wondered.

"I didn't mean to – overstep my boundaries," mumbled Sivir, breaking the silence. She sounded on the cusp of sleep, poised in its embrace. "I really was just looking out for you."

"I know," said the Curator. He bowed his head, closing his eyes. "And the sentiment is appreciated – but please, consult with me before making any decisions on my behalf."

She didn't answer for a moment, and he wondered if she had finally succumbed. He could hear her sigh.

"Okay," she told him quietly. "Sorry."

In spite of himself, he quirked a small smile. She was not a creature who made amends lightly – he knew this, at the very least.

"Your apology is accepted," Nasus replied, and if he strained his own ears he might have heard the slightest tones of fondness seeping in.

She shifted, and when he looked down he saw that she had nestled herself more securely into his side. Her eyes were half-lidded, and the librarian knew then that sleep would soon be upon her.

"Hey, Nasus?" she murmured. He hummed in reply, poking at the dying fire. "You got any... questions? About... you know..."

"Are you not drowsy?" he asked, trying to remain still so as not to stir her.

"Just consider this one... free of charge," came her sedated response.

It was tempting to tilt his head in confusion, but he knew the gesture would be meaningless. He wouldn't have thought that being on the brink of slumber would incite her more charitable qualities. If the situation were slightly different, it would have been amusing.

The Curator of the Sands ruminated for a moment, before saying finally, "The conflict in Freljord. What are the motivations of each faction? The texts vary heavily from source to source."

"Ah, the ice-queens..."

She fell asleep halfway through her explanation of the Avarosa.

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He despised forests, and he despised long treks through wilderness, but most of all he despised not having some kind of alcohol on hand to sugar the pill.

Graves squinted, shielding his eyes with one hand in a somewhat vain attempt not to get blinded by the morning sun. With a little bit of shade, he could see a road in the distance, just barely visible through the thicket.

"Found the main path," he reported over his shoulder, glancing briefly at what remained of the group of stragglers that'd emerged from the Institute's ruins.

They'd lost two and gained two. The sheriff insisted she had other business to attend to and broke off with them soon as they cleared the area. The swordsman only stuck it out with them as far as the first forest, but he set off his own once they'd hit one of the tributaries that branched off the Serpentine River – told them that he'd get to Demacia faster on his own, the slippery bastard. He probably didn't want to deal with the newcomers. Now they were more of an interesting story.

The Outlaw cast a wary look at the remaining members of their party. They met up with the first when the sounds of destruction had quieted and he convinced Fortune to come with him to check out the facility quick-like and make sure it was all empty. The second was an unpleasant surprise they'd found skulking around in the Ionian branch.

Really, if he wanted to be technical, they'd only actually gained one other person. The second wasn't honestly with them by will.

"How long do you think she can keep him bound like that?" the Bounty Hunter whispered to him, coming up on his right side.

"Well, if Miss Karma's got as much force of will as she claims," he replied lowly, "I reckon long enough."

"Why do you think he was even in the clinic in the first place?"

"Hell if I know. Was hanging around in there like he had business."

"I don't like it." She shivered, rubbing at her arms. "I remember when he first came to the League. A real nightmare, that one. Now he's loose and wandering around, and for who knows how long before then."

"Well." Graves shrugged, gesturing towards the pair behind them with the slightest nod of his head. "She seems to have him under control."

"See if it lasts," she muttered under her breath.

If he hadn't been sure that the woman in question was probably completely focused on keeping Nocturne tethered to her and completely incapacitated, he might've had qualms about yapping about her while she was standing right behind him. Regardless, she was reciting some weird Ionian incantations about a mile a minute, so he highly doubted it was going to be an issue.

The Eternal Nightmare seemed to glance at him – empty eyes that drew a shudder from the base of his spine despite himself – straining slightly against his spiritual chain. For a moment, he thought he could see a sneer, but the Outlaw shook the image from his mind. A few days out with the ghost was getting to him was all it was.

They came onto the road, finally – a gravel piece of work. Hell for horses, but good enough for walking, he supposed. If memory served, he was relatively certain it was one of the many winding paths that could get them to that high-horse mess of a holier-than-thou city-state. Even if it couldn't, wasn't like they much cared where they ended up. Graves had a feeling the Terror of the Void hadn't run off to frolic in the meadows of the wilds, and he was none too keen on seeing him again.

The only reason why they were trying to get to Demacia in the first place was because of Karma. He paused very briefly in his trudging up the gravel road to shoot a quick glance at her. How the woman walked all this way with her eyes closed was beyond a mystery to him, but Ionian mysticism was some crazy stuff. Still, she had informed them up-front that her tether would not be indefinite, and if they didn't think they were capable of putting him down, they'd better get someplace with the facilities to contain him.

Personally, he suspected she was leaving out that she was itching to hitch a ride back to Ionia via airship. If Demacians had anything worthwhile, it was convenient transportation. And liquor, he supposed, but nothing compared to Bilgewater grog – that stuff practically burned through your liver. Fortune made him try her concoctions sometimes, when she was preparing for the annual GrugMug Grog Slog.

"What are we going to do once we get there?" asked the Bounty Hunter with a huff, fiddling with her hat. "I'm not like you careless lot, I still have a ship and a crew to get back to."

"Cross that bridge when you get there," he answered gruffly, not even bothering to look at her.

"And I still need new clothes!" she cried, completely ignoring his reply. "These rags are filthy." He could almost envision the pout he would see if he snuck the glance.

"Three days ain't gonna ruin your clothes, Fortune. You been on a ship - they can last at least that long."

"That's because you're a slob who doesn't give a damn about good hygiene," she shot back. "Some of us like to be clean."

"Spending a little time on the road every now and then don't make me a heathen, you know."

"Really?" Her voice practically dripped sarcasm. The woman could be so catty sometimes. "I wouldn't have guessed."

They were reaching a bend in the road now, where the surrounding forest became thick again, and the sunlight spotty. To his irritation, the morning had shifted towards noon and it was starting to get hot. He had a considerably high tolerance for heat, but that didn't mean he liked it.

On top of that, walking was just dull; nothing to look at but trees and trees and dirt with no real company for the road. He liked Fortune, really, but when she got onto her harping it was enough to make his ears bleed. Graves sighed to himself, rubbing at his beard. He just wanted to swing into some town, some tavern and eat some real food. Squirrels got old after a few meals – the little varmints didn't even have that much meat on them anyway.

"I'd fancy some chicken," he muttered to himself, gazing around at the overhanging foliage. "Or something tender, like – "

Something came bursting out of the trees – several somethings, in fact – thrashing around in the air and cawing at the top of their lungs.

"Crow," finished the Outlaw thoughtfully, stopping to watch the spectacle before him.

Fortune made a shrill kind of sound, whirling around to look as a huge flock burst from the forest. In the midst of them, a figure tore through, landing in a heap on the gravel road. A familiar hat tumbled to the ground.

"Damn he's persistent," the newcomer grunted, getting to his feet.

Graves reached slowly for his gun.

The figure snatched up his hat and brushed off his coat, looking up to greet them. "Howdy-do, fo- oh shit."

"Howdy-do," returned Graves with a wide grin, "partner."

Twisted Fate backed up, a hand placed defensively on his hat. Crows were still cawing in the distance, but the Outlaw hardly cared.

"Well isn't this a coincidence?" laughed the Card Master, and to his grim satisfaction, Graves thought he could hear the slightest tone of nervousness in his voice.

He pulled up his shotgun, giving it a good cock. "I guess you could call it destiny."

The false pleasantry in his former partner's face melted away into stone-cold seriousness.

"Now you listen here, hotshot, I'm in a little bit of a hurry."

"Well that's just too bad, isn't it?" replied the Outlaw, smile turning steely. "You know what I have to do."

Miss Fortune took a step back, falling in line with Karma and Nocturne. The storm of crows seemed to be getting thicker and thicker.

"Malcolm...?" she called, warily.

"Figures," muttered Fate, voice low. He scowled, spitting in the dirt. "Only two jokers in the deck and I get dealt you."

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