Jarvan the Fourth II

The assault began as we approached the coastal settlement of Trevale. A wave of blackened steel that crashed into our vanguard with the force of a typhoon, breaking through the unprepared lines of cavalry with insulting ease.

"Demacians! Break through!" I roared and the roars of my loyal soldiers echoed my words, the sounds of clashing steel, beating drums and screaming warriors drowning out everything else. Without warning, a massive brute clad in the black armor of the Trifarian Legion appeared in front of me, brandishing a fearsome war axe.

"Die, Demacian!" She roared, the axe swinging down on my head. I turned away, narrowly dodging the axe that crashed into the ground, before swinging my spear at my opponent's helmeted face. The ring of steel on steel was drowned out by the chaos surrounding us but I could see the dented spot where my spear struck her helm.

"Hah!" Without hesitation, I thrust my spear forward, plunging its tip through the occularium. The filthy Noxian made a gargling sound as blood started dripping down my spear's shaft. Before I could finish off my dying foe, a sharp pain erupted on my right shoulder.

"Gah!" I grasped the arrow sticking out of my shoulder, having punched through my bronze armor easily. Two more armored brutes marched up to me, their blades dripping with Demacian blood. One of them lunged and I swore in my head as I clumsily brought up my spear.

"Prince Jarvan!" The familiar voice of Lieutenant Barla came from my side, his sword slicing through the hand of the lunging enemy. With the flourish that could be expected from a branch member of House Laurent, he dispatched the other foe with a series of precise strikes aimed at the gaps in their armor. "We must retreat!"

Retreat? When the filthy Noxians are knocking on our door?

"I didn't take you for a craven, Lieutenant." I spat at him. The frown on his face grew stormier than ever.

"Only a Noxian fights pointless battles, Prince." He replied. I flinched at his words. As the armored backs of our vanguard started closing in on us, I heard the Lieutenant bark out orders.

"Rangers of Demacia, take the Prince and fall back! Soldiers, to me!"

As the exhausted Demacian soldiers formed a shieldwall in front of us, the Rangers shuffled me off the battlefield, their companion hounds leading the way. The last thing I saw before I was dragged off into the forest were the loyal soldiers that followed my command being mowed down like wheat by a tide of armored Noxians.

We trekked through the forested path leading to Palclyff when the Ranger-Knight that was guiding our retreat called out.

"Prince Jarvan, enemies spott- grk!" He stumbled backwards, a crossbow bolt embedded in his throat. The hounds travelling with us barked and leapt into action, plunging into the dark foliage in pursuit of hostiles. The sounds of crossbows being loaded, both from the depths of the foliage and from my escorts, filled the area.

"Loose!" Crossbow bolts flew into the forest, where the barks of hounds and the shouting of men were coming from. The enemies burst from the brush while they were reloading, clad in lighter armor than the ones we fought before.

"Prince Jarvan, run!" One of the rangers shouted, before he out a short sword to engage the enemy. I gripped my spear tighter, preparing to leap into the fray but the stinging wound on my shoulder and Lieutenant Barla's last words stopped me.

Only a Noxian fights pointless battles.

These men were fighting and dying, giving their all to make sure I survive. If I fall here, their struggles would have been pointless.

"Damnit!" I broke from our formation and dashed into the foliage. I will survive and bring word to the capital. Then I will lead the full might of Demacia to avenge my men.

Pain lanced through my back as multiple sharp objects punched through my armor and embedded themselves in my flesh. Distracted by the pain, I stumbled on a root and crashed into the dense greenery. My vision blurred, the distant sounds of barks and shouts ringing in my head.

I will survive this. I must-

My eyes closed, searing the image of pale, violet skin and roaring flames in my mind.

Shyvana I

When I first found the wounded warrior, it was the memory of my dying father that came to mind. That feeling of helplessness as he died in my arms, my failure to save him still clinging to the flames of my soul. I vowed, there and then, that I will not fail to save this one. So I flew him to the outskirts of a castle town, transformed back into my humanoid form and carried him through the gates.

It was an honest surprise when the guards told me that he was the prince of Demacia and only heir to its throne. The people of the castle cast suspicious gazes on my violet skin, but they welcomed me with open arms, their gratitude and relief obvious on their faces and in the scents they emitted.

The warrior - no, the Prince - also showed his gratitude when he woke up, but underneath it all was the familiar scent of guilt. It was his fault, he told me, that hundreds of his men, loyal men of Demacia, died for naught. He spent the nights wallowing in his grief, telling me of those who charged into their dooms under his command. I listened to him, spent most of my time in that castle beside him, his words ringing familiarly in my head as words that I have often told myself before.

If I hadn't been there, father would still be alive.

If I hadn't been born, those people back in Valoran wouldn't have died screaming in pain and fear.

Days passed and our conversations went from bouts of self loathing to actual conversations. He told me of Demacia, of the grand city crafted from marble and petricite, of the lords and nobles that walked the walls, of how the Demacian people take care of their own.

Loyalty and devotion to one's people. I've experienced it before, in the sheer gratitude the people here showed me for saving one of their own. Perhaps, had fate been kinder, I would have found a home here and a people to call my own.

The boiling blood in my veins said otherwise. I could feel my heart beat faster and faster every passing day, a sure sign of things to come. My continued presence would only endanger the kind people here that gave me shelter, innocents who would die in wrath and flame.

I had to leave.

"Shyvana!"

I had to leave.

"Why are you sneaking around?" The prince asked, his gleaming armor a contrast to the darkened courtyard that I was passing through.

"I must leave, Prince Jarvan." I replied as quietly as possible. He frowned in consternation.

"Then wait until tomorrow and we will give you a proper feast to send you off!" He declared. His sincerity nearly made me smile, but I could feel the fire burning under my skin, could hear the darkness whispering in the wind, could barely tolerate the scratching of claw and scale that roiled in my very soul.

"I can't." I said, hoping that my whimpering voice didn't betray the fear I feel inside.

"Shyvana, what's wrong?" He stepped up to me, his young, handsome face twisted in worry. I shook my head.

"Blood of my blood, fire of my fire. She will come for me and innocents will die." I felt a firm hand on my shoulder.

"You have saved my life. Whatever creature is coming, I will fight beside you."

Loyalty and devotion. Is that what being a Demacian means?

He continued speaking.

"A Demacian doesn't fight pointless battles. A battle to protect my friend is one I would happily fight."

I stared into his eyes, flecks of blue that shone with determination and strength. I clenched my fist. The fire boiled within me, but this time I welcomed it, embraced the heat and strength it offered.

The sound of a warhorn echoed throughout the castle.

"Dragon!"

Alarmed cries could be heard from the massive walls.

She comes. And this time, I won't flee.

Barrett I

The mobilization was quick. The Prince's safety was paramount and we couldn't wait for the full mobilization of the Dauntless Vanguard. Instead, we scrambled the reserve forces of the capital's East Wall garrison. Despite the troublesome circumstances, the familiar sounds of marching boots and stamping hooves were a balm to my old soul.

"Ahahaha, a sword and a shield is preferable to the politics of nobles any day." I commented to my young squire. She was a jumpy one, but she had a good heart and a deep well of courage should she need it.

"As you say, Lord Buvelle." She demurred and I laughed.

"Don't be so glum, my dear. Chin up, chest out and show the world your Demacian pride."

"Sorry, my lord. I'm just worried about the prince."

You, me and the couple hundred people with us, I mused. As the king's advisor, I've been witness to several of the prince's interactions with his peers. Pride, ambition and a thirst to prove himself not only to his father but to the Demacian people as a whole.

A good ambition, but not one to pursue recklessly.

The frantic galloping of hooves interrupted our conversation. A girl, clad in the armor of the Illuminators, rode up to us.

"Lord Buvelle!"

"Radiant Arrietta, is something wrong?" She was a mage that we sponsored to join the Illuminators. For a mission as critical as rescuing the prince, she was willing to risk revealing her status as a mage. Plans to smuggle her out of Demacia should the need arise have already been arranged.

"I-" She hesitated, eyeing my squire warily. "There's something strange in the air."

Something that she can't speak of openly could only mean one thing. It was related to magic.

"Oh?"

She looked lost for a moment, trying to find the right words.

"It's like, something is eating the air?" She ended with a confused note. I frowned and from the corner of my eye, I could see my squire's face scrunched in confusion.

Eating the air? What does that-

Silence fell upon us. The sound of marching boots, of gossiping soldiers, and even the sound of hooves ceased to exist as people craned their necks and looked skyward.

There was only the massive shadow that blocked out the sun for a brief moment before moving on.

Impossible. It was only a legend. Wasn't it?

The silence remained for the next few minutes before I managed to shake off my awe.

"Radiant! What's its heading?"

Arrietta blinked and frowned in thought.

"Looks to be Wrenwall, my lord."

Wrenwall? That old castle? The Gates of Mourning can wait. If the Galio monument is awake, then it would go to where Demacia needs the most aid.

"Soldiers! We march for Wrenwall!"