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Chapter Five: Life at the Institute

"Focus, Morgana. Your minds are one. His eyes are your eyes."

The exercise was a basic one I had gone through hundreds of times before, though an uninformed passerby would probably scratch their head in confusion. Morgana and I knelt facing one another roughly a meter apart on the straw mats. She was blindfolded, the cloth wrapped around her eyes several times to ensure not even a sliver of light leaked through, and rested her hands on her lap. My vision was unobstructed, and I held my hands out before me with a certain number of fingers extended.

"Keep your mind open, Hao. Just let her in."

I had almost completely lowered my mental defenses, an action that required far more conscious effort that one would think. I felt a light touch brush against the edges of my mind, and I swung those gates open. Even getting to this point had taken nearly a week. Our instructor, a senior Summoner hailing from Shurima, paced a circle around us observing our progress. He was the same Summoner that bought me to the Institute, and one of the few I considered a friend.

"Four fingers?" she hesitantly answered after several moments.

"Excellent," our instructor nodded, "You can take the blindfold off now. That's enough for this morning."

"So," I asked while offering a hand to help Morgana up, "Who's up for whatever slop the cafeteria is trying to pass off as food?"


Afternoons for an aspiring Champion were packed with endless classes: mastering Institute procedures and regulations and learning the intricacies of the Treaty of Valoran that both empowered and yoked the Institute of War. My afternoons saw me return to my duties. Every Summoner in my department had a different favorite answer when asked; I personally preferred saying I worked in logistics, specifically coordinating food shipments between the Institute's outposts: it simultaneously gave me reason to travel all over the continent while being just boring enough that nobody asked awkward questions. My real job, in comparison, was usually only minimally more exciting.

"I take it my suggested reading was...enlightening, was it not?" a sultry voice underscored with a faint hiss came from just over my shoulder.

I practically jumped, clutching my current reading—a report on the delicate balance of power in the Freljord that was proving every bit as dry as it was long—to my chest in an effort to calm my pounding heart. I whirled around to look the owner in the eye. More accurately, into the Piltover-made sunglasses that shielded me from her petrifying gaze. Considering her family, I shouldn't be so surprised that she could move so quietly. Painted lips were curled into a wry smile as she awaited my response.

"It is," I nodded after a long while, "Though I'm only halfway through it right now."

Nobody outside of the senior Summoners knew what price the Institute paid for Cassiopeia Du Coteau's services, though I could make an educated guess: a king's ransom in gold, the opportunity to turn the entirety of Valoran into her personal playground as head of the Institute's Intelligence and Counter-Espionage unit, and a place where her serpentine features were seen as alluringly exotic rather than repulsive. I'm also told that she was the center of the Institute's gossip network and semi-anonymously penned a surprisingly-insightful relationship advice column in the Journal of Justice, though I had never been in a position to test either claim.

"No matter," Cassiopeia's armlets clinked together as she waved dismissively, "You have weeks yet, though I do need to talk to you about your next assignment."

That set off a few alarm bells.

"Come," she beckoned while slithering down the hallway, "There's been a development with those sacked Demacian caravans..."


Three Weeks Later

"Relax. Breathe. You're not opening up, not letting anything in. You're just reaching out."

Morgana and I were once again kneeling upon the straw mats, though both of us were blindfolded this time. I unnecessarily closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding it for several seconds before exhaling out through my nose. I repeated it a few more times until my heartbeat slowed, and then I simply reached out. I extended a mental tendril forward, reaching for the mass of magic before me.

"Good," our instructor whispered, "Now, clasp the hand in front of you."

An awkward but accurate-enough metaphor, all things considered. I didn't so much as see Morgana as I felt her presence. A wisp of magic infused with the smoky taste of long-suppressed pain. I simply reached towards it and curled myself around it. As that happened, I felt the wisp curl around me and melt into me.

I was suddenly in two places at once. Two sets of senses, two sets of memories. It was all quite overwhelming.

"Careful now. You're not used to this much input. The crystal orbs have always borne the brunt of it, but you're not going to have one going forward," the Shuriman Summoner lectured.


"Another caravan's been hit?" I asked unnecessarily as I skimmed the report in front of me.

Normally, the caravan raids would be considered an internal Demacian matter worthy only of passive Institute surveillance. That changed with the latest report.

"I'm officially moving you onto this matter full-time," Cassiopeia announced, adjusting her coiled tail that she had taken to using in place of a chair, "Your other assignments will be transferred or suspended for the time being."

The tip of her tail grabbed another folder and pushed it across the desk towards me.

"Petricite?" I whispered under my breath as I scanned the contents.

"They're trying to keep it all suppressed for now, but their investigators have found nothing. I suspect they will request an official Institute investigation soon. All out of the public eye, of course."

Petricite was the center of Demacia's military strategy and the nation's single most well-guarded resource. Even the tiniest splinter was exhaustively logged and tracked, and the stuff was only moved under extremely heavy guard. For the Demacian military to lose track of any was simply unthinkable.

"I know you're still preparing for your First Summoning. Give it all due haste. I estimate they will make the request no later than two to three months from now."


Six Weeks Later

"Good. Deep breaths. Don't think about it. Just mirror each other's movements."

Forming the link had become near second-nature by this point. Syncing our thoughts and filtering the sensory input was as natural as breathing. Now, we learned to act. The exercises began easily enough: lifting the same arm at the same time, walking the same path while separated by a curtain. They grew more creative as time went on: she took me through an ancient Demacian waltz—I suspected my Shuriman friend chose that one specifically because I hated dancing, and I plotted revenge accordingly—and I guided her through a basic Ionian combat form.

This exercise was the most elaborate yet: some basic wood golems of the type used on the Fields of Justice surrounded the two of us as we stood back-to-back. Simultaneously an exercise of trust and ability. Our instructor randomly ordered them to attack, and they were close enough that we had just over a second to find the attacker and retaliate.

I felt a tug on the link, and I whirled around while forming a ball of magic in my hand. I flung it towards the charging golem just as Morgana launched a needle of dark magic at it. Both struck home, sending the construct sprawling to the ground. Without giving us even a moment to recover, another one jumped in with blunted axe raised high.

They steadily came at us faster and faster with increasingly complex attack patterns. They attacked in twos and threes, going high and low and from different directions. Staff-wielding golems would try and take potshots at us, and we took turns shielding the both of us. The bolts weren't powerful enough to do any real harm, but the electric shock and resulting numbness served as effective deterrent from letting any through. Even our breathing and heartbeats fell in sync as both raced from the exertion.

I had sparred on the Fields of Justice long enough to recognize the heavy footfalls and massive hammer of a so-called "super minion." The only warning of what was the come was a smirk crossing our instructor's face a split second before all the golems attacked at once.

The now-familiar hexagonal segments of Morgana's shield formed around us, shattering in an instant from the sheer fury of bombardment. Mine was already raised by the time it collapsed, and hers reformed as the spellfire punched through my barrier. There was little time to think: I conjured up a dozen magical spheres and flung them at the nearest golems, sending them flying back. One of the heavier golems charged forward, only to be stopped dead in its tracks as Morgana hurled an orb of dark magic at it with a flourish. Several of the staff-wielding constructs reverted back to inert wooden dolls as Morgana covered the mats beneath their feet in a layer of arcane fire.

A squad of hammer-wielding golems, a dozen in all, charged at us with shields lowered. The two of us acted as one, and I stood briefly mesmerized as Morgana rose into the air with a shout. Her wings fully extended as she flung the chains wrapped around her third pair as through they weight nothing. Dark magic coated them as they split into a dozen smaller chains that pierced the hearts of the charging golems. Their spring slowed to a crawl as Morgana gathered all the now-ethereal chains with one clawed hand and bought the bunch up to chest level. A second later, she yanked the chains back out, freezing the constructs in place as I raised a hand. The stricken golems were lifted into the air and promptly crashed back down onto the mats as I released my grip.

The dark magic faded as the chains turned back to ordinary iron and resecured her wings. A shame. The winged Morgana was mesmerizingly beautiful.

A nervous giggle and a light punch to my upper arm reminded me that the link was still active and that I thought that last bit out loud.


"We've received an official request from the Demacian court," Cassiopeia slid the seal-encrusted paper across the desk towards me.

Predictably, King Jarvan requested utmost discretion from the Institute. I briefly wondered how he'd react if he knew that he had requested help from a Du Coteau. Probably a rage-induced heart attack.

"Be careful. The senior Summoners have requested you by name. They're even pushing off next week's goodwill visit to Demacia until you've completed your First Summoning."

That was never good.


Two Weeks Later

The current exercise was not strictly part of the Institute's curriculum, but it was something I had done during my training back in Ionia. Plus, it was a bit more fun than most of the officially-prescribed exercises. Morgana stood on the mat, feet shoulder-width apart and arms hanging at her sides with the now-familiar blindfold wrapped tightly over her eyes. I quietly circled her.

"This is something I used to do back in Ionia," I explained, "It'll be good practice if we ever do get into a real fight, though."

I mentally reached out and clasped the proffered psychic probe. I felt myself melt into the wisp of magic even as I absorbed it, and a now-familiar presence settled into my mind.

"I'm going to attack you. Defend yourself to the best of your ability. The point isn't to take me down but to use the link to predict my attacks."

I will admit, I was rather curious. Ionian mages received some martial arts training, but I knew we were unusual in that regard. I circled a few more times before transferring my weight to the balls of my feet. I watched her hands curl into fists for a brief moment before relaxing again. I nodded in approval and circled a few more times before I raised my arms and jumped in.

It happened so fast that I was already held in a triangle choke by the time I realized what had happened. My vision swam slightly as I replayed the last few seconds in my head. Morgana had ducked under my initial attack and launched herself forward to knock me off-balance as she attempted to sweep my closer leg out from under me. She didn't put quite enough force behind the sweep, however, and I took advantage of that to bring us both to the ground. Which bought me to my current situation.

"I'm not much of a fighter," Morgana sheepishly admitted as I slapped the mat in submission, "But they did insist I at least know the basics."

"Good to know," I gasped out as her leg released its hold.

The relief was replaced by the feeling of impending doom as I heard the doors swing open and an annoyingly-bubbly voice filter through.

"And here we have the training rooms, where..."

Luxanna Crownguard. Officially, she was a goodwill ambassador from Demacia to the Institute of War attached to a disaster relief team. The Crownguard family hoped that the assignment would teach her discpline, and she was definitely not magical in any way. In reality, she was sent to the Institute in hopes of avoiding a scandal and was the leader of Task Force Brightburn. How a team consisting of a secret Demacian mage, a Yordle with a giant hammer, another Yordle with a fae spirit companion, a wind spirit, a ludicrously well-armed Zaunite criminal, and their respective Summoners managed to accomplish anything, much less fight off some of the most dangerous Void creatures ever recorded, was rather beyond me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lux pause, glance between the two of us, grin in a manner I could only describe as shit-eating, and rush out to intercept the approaching dignitaries.

"My apologies, it turns out that this one is undergoing some unscheduled repairs. If you'll follow me across the hallway, we'll have an identical set of training rooms I can show you."

As Lux's voice and the accompanying footsteps slowly faded into the distance, I was reminded of my current position by an unnecessarily-loud throat-clearing.

"My, my, you're quite forward for an Ionian," the corners of Morgana's lips curled upwards, "Aren't you supposed to start by presenting me with a button from your robes?"

I sprang backwards with enough speed that the back of my head nearly collided with the mats. The pain of landing hard on my tailbone nearly canceled out that of the blood all rushing to my face. I started stammering out something about how it was one province off Ionia's eastern coast and that it was a tradition practiced by schoolchildren.


A/N: Probably shouldn't be a surprise what I was listening to when I wrote the obligatory training montage scene.

Forming the Mental Link: Pacific Rim Main Theme (Ramin Djawadi)