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Chapter Eight: Into the Lion's Den

"Ten-shun!"

The low buzz of countless conversations began dying down as soon as our escort disembarked, the heavy synchronized footfalls of a dozen uniformed men and women drawing the undivided attention of the Demacian dignitaries filtering through the palace gates. The peacekeeper squad was a sight to behold: dark olive-green jackets work over white button-up collared shirts, close-fitting dress pants of a lighter shade of green, black dress shoes polished until they shone, and peaked caps. Some of the party-goers outright stopped to stare, their gazes split evenly between the immaculate uniforms and the rifles the Institute peacekeepers held. The sergeant's sharp command echoed through the courtyard, and I could see several of the nobles further inside turned to see what all the commotion was about. Twelve heels crashed against the ground followed by an equal number of rifle butts, all with millisecond precision. Several of the stone-faced Demacian guardians twitched uneasily but ultimately stayed at their posts.

Aren't you glad I forced you to learn how to dance? Morgana silently laughed, painted lips curling upwards in a sly smile.

My lips pressed into a thin line in response, my grumbling dying in my throat. Camille and her Summoner were definitely the lucky ones: as the former's relationship to the Institute was completely under-the-table, her arrival was never officially announced. The pair had slipped into Demacia hours ago, taking advantage of all the nation's attentions being turned to the palace for the evening to do some investigating. I spared a glance at the other Champions and Summoners as they disembarked. The height difference between Sona and her Summoner meant she was practically hanging off his arm, though neither of their faces moved from a serene smile. Lucian and his Summoner had paired off with Yaling and Irelia, respectively. All four adopted identical humorless expressions, their eyes slowly scanning the attendees. Suppressing a sigh, I stood up and offered my arm. If it weren't for the company, this evening probably would wind up on the wrong side of barely tolerable. With present company, it threatened to become to pleasant or—part of me dared hope—even enjoyable.

I briefly wondered if I thought the last bit aloud as the smile briefly turned into a full-blown grin as Morgana slipped her arm through mine.

You're getting better at not leaving your end of the link open, she reassured, We'll work on your facial expressions later.


If the whispers and snatches of conversation I overheard was anything to go by, our arrival had left exactly the impression we hoped for: the Institute of War was no longer the ragtag group of Summoners and Champions that fled to the mountains after the Fifth Rune War, and its peacekeeper squads were more than a disorganized rabble of refugees and exiles with access to a worrying amount of chemtech firearms. The peacekeepers we bought with us were released from their posts as soon as they had secured their weapons, and I spotted a small cluster of distinctive olive uniforms in the crowd. They were surrounded by a gaggle of minor nobles and Demacian officers who hung onto their every word as they recounted a skirmish in the Shuriman desert. No doubt one of Emperor Azir's near-weekly incursions towards the Institute outposts that always stopped just short of crossing the metaphorical red line.

A flute of champagne in each hand, I quietly wove between the crowds. My robes drew quite a few stares, but I was a completely unknown Summoner and thus largely went ignored beyond that. Irelia and her escort had seemingly disappeared entirely, though I did spot Lucian conversing with a minor noble and Sona silently giggling at at hopeful suitor's compliments. The two were far more familiar with the Demacian court and its many noble houses and had taken it upon themselves to give me a crash course in etiquette on the ride over so that I at least wouldn't make a complete fool of myself. I quickly ducked under a passing waiter's tray—and I was fairly sure that the "waiter" was a disguised magehunter—and dodged around a few officers, breathing a sigh of relief as the crowd finally parted to reveal my goal.

Morgana had perched herself on the edge of a fountain, keeping her wings out of the water with what I could only assume was rather impressive core strength. Her hands were folded primly on her lap, and her conversation partner sat a small distance away. Without the massive bulk of his distinctive armor and sword, it took me a few seconds to recognize Garen Crownguard. I couldn't recognize the woman with him, though the two seemed quite comfortable with one another if their physical closeness was anything to go by. I filed that observation away for later as I quietly approached the trio. What snippets of conversation I could catch flew over my head, though I understood just enough to guess that they were discussing the work of some ancient Demacian philosopher.

"Johann," Morgana offered me a pleasant smile as she gratefully accepted the champagne glass.

"Summoner Jin," Garen stood up and greeted, hand extended.

"Sword-Captain Crownguard," I bowed slightly in greeting and clasped the proffered hand.

I barely suppressed a wince as his grip threatened to crush my fingers, though I did sense a mental giggle over the link. I sent a flash of annoyance back over, and I couldn't stop from silently broadcasting my relief as the Shield-Captain of the Dauntless Vanguard released my hand.


"You do know who that is, right?" Morgana leaned in and whispered to me during a gap in her debate with the elder Crownguard sibling.

The sensation of her breath against my ear sent a shiver up my spine, but I successfully tamped it down and turned towards her with a curious expression on my face. She simply wiggled her shoulder towards Garen's mysterious date, and I briefly shifted my gaze to regard the woman. Her dress was cut in a manner that emphasized her athletic figure without appearing immodest, and I had originally pegged her for a soldier before noticing her hair was too long to be within regulations. She had clearly colored it, though in such a manner that I couldn't tell if her natural hair color were red, black, or neither. Now that Morgana pointed it out, there was something familiar about the woman's facial feat…

I nearly choked on my champagne in surprise when realization sank in.

My mind was split between processing the implications of the new revelations and wondering if the Institute gave Demacia's border guards perhaps a bit too much credit. The two trains of thought warred for supremacy for several seconds before a trumpet blast derailed both.

"Presenting His Imperial Majesty Jarvan III," a courtier bellowed as he proceeded to recite the Demacian monarch's long list of titles.

The real party was about to begin.


A side benefit of the link, I was quickly starting to discover, was that matching pace with my dance partner was much easier than normal. We didn't need to trade words, just sensations and concepts. Most of the "talking," for lack of a better term, was my reciting the steps to myself with Morgana occasionally interrupting to correct me.

Only two spins this time, I felt her middle wings shift slightly to keep my hands in place, then two lifts.

I had to admit that the spins were the most interesting part of our waltz, with only our link preventing me from receiving a mouthful of feathers. A deeply-buried part of me silently laughed at the prospect of her next dance partner avoiding her wings, and while Morgana's face remained passive, I did feel a playful swat across my shoulder despite her arms never moving.

Despite the magical aids, I'm quite surprised I somehow didn't mess up the surprisingly-intricate arm movements during the promenade.

I'm pretty sure the Fields of Justice are more complicated than a simple waltz, Morgana raised an eyebrow in amusement, But you don't seem to have nearly as much trouble there.

I'm too busy watching my feet as we wove between the other dancers to formulate a proper reply, so I just send a flash of annoyance and an insistence that the Fields of Justice were infinitely simpler than a waltz.


I slipped away to a secluded balcony as soon as it was socially acceptable, ostensibly to get some fresh air. As soon as I breathed a sigh of relief, my peace and quiet was shattered by an approaching courier.

"Summoner Jin Zhihao?" the man asked.

"That's me," I nodded in response, and the courier immediately pulled a scroll from his pouch and offered it to me.

I plucked the scroll from his grip without one hand a pressed a handful of coins into his open palm with the other. The man silently bowed and left, though I waited several moments to ensure I was actually alone before breaking the seal.

The message was almost infuriatingly vague: a time, a place, a request to board the waiting carriage, and a conspicuous blank space where a signature would normally go. The only assurance I had that the sender did not intend to silently murder me, though it was rather substantial assurance, was the stamp at the bottom.

As unfamiliar as I was with the Demacian court, even I could recognize the seal of House Laurent.