Warnings: Violence, war, sexual implications, murder, weaponry, blood. Trigger warning.

A/N: I'm sorry to say that updates will be taking much longer. I'm in grad school, working two jobs, and writing my novel. This one is pretty short. I hope it doesn't disappoint.


Chapter Eleven: Worst Case Scenario


There are four of them, two of which are out of sight. We waited until they separated a good distance, enough time to kill the first targets. Talon is being cautious, which is a clear indication of possible threat. He literally vanishes prior to pursing their leader, crossing blades countless times in a brief stalemate. She's quick, matching his speed. I send Valor out, blinding the second, and riddle him with arrows. He rises despite the injuries, body lean and entirely muscle. I use the closest trunk as leverage, hoisting myself up into the tree line by my heel. Val steers outwards to detract from my position. I'm afraid to use my arm. It's not numb yet. I can't afford to hesitate.

He's looking upward, injured eyes scanning the foliage. Cuts along the bridge of his nose, bleeding from talons. I take aim and send one into the back of his skull as he turns, fumbling. He's down, and I check on Talon as he gains the upper hand. I send an arrow into the back of her knee, watching her falter. She rears back, thrusting herself forward despite the injury. I send another into her hand. He embeds his blade into her throat, then dodges the blood splatter.

Talon's looking at me. His eyes are intense, immensely focused. I've never seen him so consumed in thought, save the day I'd told him I killed Du Couteau. But he's looking at me like I'd just told him a secret...at me, not through me. The expression is far too composed. As though I'd complimented him. I ask Valor what he's looking at, and the simple answer is "you".

The last two arrive, rushed at the sound of conflict. Third and fourth, both limber and decorated heavily with supplies.

The fourth removes a sword from her back, glowing and intensely massive. My chest tightens at the anticipation of a difficult conflict. As I take aim, she decapitates her supposed ally in a single movement. Swift and direct, the muscles of her arms flex obviously beneath dark fabric. She's the white haired one Talon asked Ashe about. I wouldn't know anyone who properly fit her description. Talon's calm, without concern. I assume she's not a threat.

I secure my crossbow to my side, arrows fumbling about in my carrier. I've already used a third of my ammunition. I haven't had to concern myself over arrows in years.

Talon adjusts his bandages, placing pressure on the wound. I wonder if he reopened it. I don't see any blood. She hands him the supplies she'd been carrying on her back, pulling her hood down as he takes the satchel. Definitely white hair.

Val asks me if I'm hungry. I admit that I am. He says he can hunt me small animals. I decline the gracious offer.

They're talking. I'm still lounging in the tree, having situated myself. My eyes linger over the dead man and his arrow-riddled body. I need to pick those up. We've been traveling for a day already. We even trudged through the Pass without delay. An entire twenty-sum hours before they caught up to us from Rakelstake. The diplomat's bodyguards. They were slow...either that or we were just fast. Or perhaps this unnamed ally had stalled them intentionally.

She's staring at me, cautious. Her eyes are crisp, her voice high for a woman of her obvious grit and stature. Her sword intrigues me. She conceals it yet again, hidden in a massive sheath pressed against her back. She must not have revealed it to her comrades. I imagine a weapon of such sorcery is rare to come across. She's still looking at me, speaking to Talon in the process. She holds no hostility or judgement. Her expression is very passive, even calm. Talon glances backwards, hands removing familiar garments from the satchel they'd exchanged. He actually had her bring him a new hood. Incredible.

I leap to the forest floor from my position, approaching the corpse and salvaging what wasn't broken. The one decapitated was an archer. I can take what he hasn't used, shorten them out to fit my flight groove. Valor doesn't leave his branch, prepped in case of emergency. The chill of the mountains reaches us despite the change in landscape. I shiver briefly with my arms still exposed in Avarosian hunting gear.

"It's the best option," he says.

"Will she hesitate?" They're talking about me. I can't stand it. It's like being watched.

"No."

"This is a rare opportunity."

"I'm aware."

"So you have everything figured out, Talon?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly."

"How exactly is this going to work?" I ask mid-conversation. She has an attitude with him, though I can't tell if it's playful or mocking. They're both stone-faced. I recall a lore from my childhood that taught us Noxians never smiled. I prevent a small grin from creeping over my lips. Caleb had told it a hundred times over. Never once had he considered it true. And since I've become elite, neither have I.

The first time Talon killed everyone around me, guiltless...he smiled.

He turns, setting his belongings at a distance on the floor. He grips my hand aggressively while pulling a blade from his belt, wielding it with intent. I step back, a noise of frustration and caution slipping through my teeth. I have my crossbow flush against his hip as he makes contact.

Valor has my back, squawking an insult. He's on my forearm, leering forward as though making a physical threat. He's placed himself between the blade and my wrist, wings stretched out in warning. I briefly see the distrust present in his eyes. His feathers are standing on end, agitated.

Talon loosens his grip. But he doesn't move against my readied bolt, prepared to puncture a critical joint. He's asking me to trust him. As though I ever truly would.

"Val. It's fine." I mumble it, uncertain. I'm not sure if it is fine, because even I had prepared for conflict. I'm not entirely informed, and neither is he. But we exchange a look, and he slowly pulls back, wings retracting. I lower my weapon, finger still present on the trigger. Still tense.

Talon isn't saying much. He hasn't since we left Rakelstake. In fact, we've only spoken a few words since we departed. But he adjusts my hand in his, palm up, and slices quickly over the skin. I watch him. I inspect his shoulders and anticipate any suspicious movements. I tense my wrist, prepping to pull it away. We make eye contact, and he's trying to tell me something within a brief nod. A form of non-verbal communication. But I'm bleeding, tired, and I don't want to listen. Another scar I allowed him to make on my body. Another mistake. It stings, but it doesn't hurt. I suppose I'm used to it.

He briefly angles my arm to the side, eyeing a training scar running up the underside of my forearm. It's distinct, but I rarely expose my skin. He's suspicious of it. I don't know why.

"What are you thinking?" I ask because I want to know.

He pulls off my headpiece with one hand, entirely unwelcome, and rubs it over my seeping palm. I feel my breath hitch in my throat. My hair is falling everywhere, achingly unrestrained. The metal is cold from the air.

"Hold on." He tells me as though this were some collaborative project. He removes multiple papers from within his jacket, familiar in style. He has my journals. I thought I'd left them behind. I nearly had a heart attack, having figured I'd left evidence to be found. What an ass.

He holds them against the pooling blood, then waves them about to quicken the drying process.

"I'm ignorant to anything outside the execution. Why am I a priority?" Swain should have more important leads. I shouldn't be his main focus.

"The Grand General considers you an immense threat to his position. You're the only one who knows that you didn't execute Du Couteau." The woman speaks up, entirely informed. She's not just some assassin or underling. She's part of Talon's inner circle. She knows too much to be an extension.

"Riven," he looks to her over his shoulder.

That's apparently her name. I think it fits. He raises my hand a bit in her direction, as though he anticipated her to do something about the bleeding. She rips at the hem of her current attire, pulling a fair strip of fabric away. She hands it to him, and he wraps it about my palm, still holding the journals with my headpiece tucked beneath his arm.

"So these documents that Cassiopia's spies obtained stated that I was the executioner? As well as the reason the execution was never made public?"

"They quote your reports and descriptions of the assassin. It's why you're the target," he says.

"You gave my journals to Katarina, who informed Cassiopia, who sent in the spy to obtain the documents. Why does this indicate that Du Couteau is still alive?"

"It doesn't. It just indicates that you know the truth of what occurred, even if you actually don't." Her voice truly doesn't fit her person. It's good for undercover work.

"An indication? He wants me dead over an indication?"

"One that could remove him from power, if backed by the right house. Katarina could easily use you as a prime witness. In Noxus, that's all it takes. With enough favor, she can successfully argue that a man working under Swain had stolen the identity of Du Couteau, and was willingly executed in Demacia to cover the actual murder. It will reference Darkwill, which will further point to Swain." She speaks up, serious. And I suppose that's true. Everyone knows of the suspicions regarding Darkwill. And everyone knows that Du Couteau vanished within a specific timeline.

"But we don't know if Du Couteau was actually murdered. There's no evidence. It would never hold in Demacian court." I'm arguing. I don't want to do this. My limbs are throbbing, my head is pounding, and I can't stand being forced into this situation. I want to go home.

"Swain is trying to hide the truth. It means Du Couteau is dead." He says it so calmly. As though years of his life hadn't been spent seeking the man who raised him. The father figure, I presume. But that statement has weight to it. It's truthful.

He has my bloodied headpiece in one hand, the journals in the other. And it looks like I'd truly been brutalized in a fight. Valor seems uncomfortable; he's still quiet. I don't like his silence, but I assume he doesn't like our situation. So I don't say anything or encourage him to speak.

"And this isn't Demacian court."

"Bird." I see him stiffen at the term. "Fly these to your general. Ensure he understands. Tell them a Noxian assassin struck the final blow."

"To Jarvan?" He holds up my helm and papers as I verify, gesturing for Valor to take them.

"He will undoubtedly announce your death as an honorable sacrifice, made in the process of developing an alliance with the Avarosian. The Noxian assassins stopped it. The death of Demacia's Wings will be heavily publicized to both states. I discussed it with the archer. She will have already destroyed any proof that you'd made it to Rakelstake." He's talking about Ashe. Ashe thinks this is my only way out, outside of running to Ionia. She knows I won't run. She's aware that I can't.

Valor is refusing. He's bickering, arguing, seething words of denial. The utter frustration in every shriek caw. But I extend my arm out and look at him, serious in every way. I don't want to part. I can't. He's the only one I can rely on, wholeheartedly. I fixed his wing. He saved my life. We dominated the ranks. And Talon knows all of this...which is why he's sending the only one who can be trusted. I'm inhaling to hold back glossy eyes as I adjust some feathers on his right wing. He's staring back, analyzing me. He realizes it. Val is the only one Jarvan will trust.

"Knowing that it is a Noxian assassin is critical, Val. Don't forget that." I can't do this. But I have to. I don't see myself surviving this any other way.

Talon further gestures the objects to Valor, speaking as he does. "Once we inform Katarina, Cassiopia will purposely send in the same spy to obtain the official record of her assassination. Word will reach Swain, wether your general publicizes her death or not. He will likely assume that his assassins succeeded."

There is no spite, suddenly. Only understanding. A concensus revolving around my survival. They're speaking to one another, wether they recognize it or not.

"Using a double agent to your advantage. Nicely done, Talon." She compliments him, arms crossed and back pressed firm against a lithe tree.

"This won't convince Swain," I say. I'm right. It won't.

"Temporarily, it will. It buys us a chance to sneak into Noxus." A momentary diversion, he says. Temporary.

"With word of your death, any bounty hunters or Noxian militia will halt their attempts to find you. You'd be able to walk through Noxus without scrutiny." She adjusts the massive scabbard, shifting it on her back.

"And Valor?"

"He's obvious. He must stay in Demacia, mourning." He acknowledges Val, eyes narrow. "I'll send a messenger bird to Quinn's residence frequently."

Valor nods, hesitant. He asks me if I feel safe, alone. If I can handle the situation of betrayal if it ever comes. I tell him I can. I can handle it. But either way my life is safer beside Talon than anywhere else without Valor. And he knows this is saving my life. He understands why we're doing this. It's my only option, supposedly. But I have yet to find an alternative that will prevent my untimely death. Valor is saving my life, yet again. Like always. Show off.

It's another hour of talking before he finally departs. He rubs up against my cheek, affectionate from the fear I see is his stance. Endless reassurance. I keep saying everything will be fine. I adjust his armor before he takes wing, journals secured in his chest plate and helm in his beak. I feel naked, suddenly. Alone, and without defenses. Entirely exposed. Vulnerable, as I had the day I fought Talon without him. The same feeling the day Caleb died, only not as severe. I'm going to miss him. This all happened so quickly.

Riven preps to leave, severing the hand of her group leader before dumping the body into the nearby river. She compares the callouses to my dominant hand, saying that it's similar enough, though not exact. She leaves before nightfall, returning to the diplomat with confirmation of my death. She'd be paid as a bounty hunter and told to leave. Her identity should be secure. Worst case scenario, she kills him. It works out well.

I wonder why he cut my hand. I think it was just to hurt me. Though I suppose if Jarvan used hunting dogs to inspect the blood, the scents wouldn't match up. It was the contrary. Strictly to protect me. The man who once sought to murder me had contradicted himself in the most obvious of ironies. I've never been so valuable, but I've never felt so lost.