-
Ch. 5

Blazing Judgment

Moonlight peers down through a large skylight in the ceiling, the only source of light in an otherwise unilluminated room. Two uneasy Summoners in heavily decorated attire watch as a figure in an entry-level robe advances toward the center of the chamber with measured steps.

"What is the meaning of this? What urgency has required you to call us at this late hour, Summoner?" the woman questions, impatiently.

"Apologies," an even tone starts. "I thought it would be better if we do this in person." Raising his voice slightly, as if reaching out, he calls, "All of us."

Taken aback by such a boldly direct approach, the pair of Summoners exchange a look of perplexity. A silent moment passes, and a reluctant shadow reveals itself, taking its place next to the others.

An aging man greets the third figure with a slight nod, and then turns to the caller of the assembly. "Very well. Now tell us…who are you?"

A hand unravels the rope on his borrowed cloak and pulls it outward, letting it drop onto the polished floor. "One who seeks entry to your League."

The Summoners inspect the intruder with a scrutinizing gaze. His armor, though scratched from battle, is well-maintained. A long, tattered cape has seen better days, telling stories through its lacerations of the many evaded strikes intended to take his life. A sheathe hangs on his left hip, cherry red, and gilded with gold, just like his armor. Their eyes meet his, cerulean oceans sharp with experience and strength, but not piercing with aggression.

"Ephrial, 'The Blazing Swordsman'. Your name travels far. Many villages owe you a great debt," the Summoner speaks again.

"They don't owe me anything. Neither do you. However, I've come to you face-to-face on the matter of my participation in this establishment."

"It is already unpropitious enough that you've somehow managed to break your way into the inner sanctum of our Institute, and tricked us into coming here personally. Are you sure this is the best course in which you should be requesting entry?" the woman asks.

"I'm afraid I must insist, Miss Lessa Carin."

The Summoner's face flinches with surprise at his knowledge of her identity.

"After all, it should only be fair to meet firsthand with those who would require access to one's very mind in exchange to take part in their arena," the swordsman follows up.

"So you know what is required of you. Good. Then, are you prepared?" the aging man looks upon the challenger with a sense of irked intrigue.

"Do as you will, Senior Summoner Ezekiel Montrose," Ephrial uses the full title and name of the mage, making clear his knowledge of to whom he speaks.

"Very well. Since you insist on doing things in a…somewhat formal way, we shall conduct this as we usually would. Lessa?" Montrose looks at his fellow Summoner.

"Is this really the kind of conduct the Institute has grown to tolerate?" Carin gives the swordsman a cold glance before turning to her fellow mage.

"Now, now… This brand of…initiative is what the League is all about, is it not? Assertive ambition, willing to press boundaries for a cause worth fighting for," he sizes up the intruder.

With a reluctant, yet understanding nod, the woman vanishes in a glint of magic. Ezekiel extends a hand, directing toward the end of the room.

"Thank you, Summoner Montrose. Summoner Grieve," he includes the silent, scowling Senior Summoner that he previously called out of hiding.

Measured steps walk toward the designated direction, approaching massive double doors, with an inscription artfully carved above. "The truest opponent lies within."

"Tell me about it," Ephrial speaks to himself, a remark on the most important lessons in his life.

With one outstretched hand, he opens the chamber without missing a stride. A few steps in the room, and he feels a sudden change in the very atmosphere. The air inside becomes very heavy, and his surroundings begin to morph. The magic is invasive, but his burning will persists. Fighting back, the images turn phantasmic, surrounding him in images transparent enough to see through, but visible enough for every detail. With his right hand over the hilt of his blade, the swordsman treads on with wary anxiousness as his environment begins growing familiar.

He sees an image of his younger self in Noxus, fleeing the city-state in the dead of night with his sister. Shadows and cunning covered their escape after the murder of their parents—a murder done by Noxians that saw any Ionian relations to be only weakness.

The images flash forward to a slightly older Ephrial, returning to the settlement of Noxian-Ionian refugees with a group of allies, only to rush into battle against the soldiers from his former nation that razed his village.

It swiftly becomes clear to him. This is not a test of physical might, but of mind. He feels the magic tugging at his senses, yearning to drag him deeper into the spell of illusion around him, but he resists enough to see through the veil, if only barely. Such was the benefit of being half Noxian and half Ionian, raised in the ways of both. Strength of body, strength of mind – force of hand, force of will. Other than that, his blood has been nothing but a curse to him.

Ephrial's eyes remain fixed forward as he walks on, his slow pace unfazed. The heat of the flames around him intensify, and the scar on his cheek flares up with it. He hears the scream of a girl in horror; the same girl's agony that echoes in his mind each day. He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sheathed blade as he once again sees his blood-covered sister, lifeless in the clutches of a demon-eyed werewolf.

Teeth clench. The Noxian inside of him says to cleave the phantom in two. The Ionian in him says not this way. It's an internal struggle between the two conflicting principles of his upbringing. However, he had already made his mind up long ago. If he is to slay the feral monster, he would do it with a heart of justice, not selfish revenge. To kill him out of revenge, and nothing more, would take the meaning out of his long journey; both the past, and what is yet to come.

A firm grip releases the sword, and his jaw relaxes. He won't lose himself to a mere phantom. If he did, how could he handle the real thing? If he loses to revenge, he loses himself.

The only solid footsteps in the room remain unwavering as he walks through the ghost of his enemy, eye-to-eye, dissipating the image into mist and then nothingness. A grizzly voice echoes, barely understandable as it was back then, only hearing "Singed" and "specimens."

Once again, the vision changes, this time to Ephrial awakening to an unnerving silence. In his futile search to find his sister's remains, he instead uncovers a long box enveloped in runes, unscorched by the flames. From a different perspective, he witnesses himself pull out a weapon; the blade a cherry red, and the edges trimmed widely in gold. A hand-and-a-half sword, slightly larger than normal—perfect versatility for his style.

The scene speeds forward in time. He sees a friend and second mentor disappear into the company of Noxian soldiers lead by the infamous Darius. The Ionian sergeant he had aided from a previous encounter with such militants had embarked on a journey toward Demacia, seeking their aid in the expected invasion of his homeland. Throughout their short time together, he helped Ephrial further hone his skills with his blade, giving him the fighting perspective of his Ionian half. Thus, he completed his mastery of the sword a second time, once for each side of his heritage. That much improved skill and strength freed himself from the onslaught, but the half-blooded swordsman was forced to hastily retreat. Uncertain of his fate, yet counted as another loss, he would never forget the name 'Zelos'.

The ethereal surroundings change yet again, painting itself vividly as ever. He finds himself in a large, open field, watching his ghost fight alongside a white-haired girl against an abnormally huge pack of dire wolves. Soon, the sources of fierce snarling and howling all laid silent in each other's blood. Both warriors, covered in mild wounds, hunch over their respective swords, panting heavily.

While catching their breath, Ephrial observes his acquaintance, impressed with her prowess. She couldn't be much younger than him. In the grasp of a rune-imprinted glove is a broken blade, still large enough that he would never suspect such a slender girl as herself could lift such a thing if he hadn't seen it with his own eyes. Something was off, however. She had great technique, but her strikes lack spirit. It's a feeling oddly familiar to him. Not exactly the same, but similar enough.

"You okay?" Ephrial's phantom asks.

She looks at him, almost as if it were the first time anyone had bothered to ask her such a question.

"I am a soldier of Noxus! Of course I'm okay," surprise quickly turns to bitterness as she rises upright. The slightest tell-tale sign shows that her own words had stung her.

"I can certainly see that," noting the tarnishing bits of Noxian armor she wears. "However, I didn't mean physically."

She doesn't respond. Instead, she turns her head to the see of dead wolves. As if seeing an image far more unpleasant than that around them, she recoils, shutting her eyes and turning her head away. The gauntlet that wraps around her sword vices its grip.

"Only the strong survive…" she audibly mutters through gritting teeth.

"I never did see that as a reason to let someone die or fight alone. Nor as a reason to butcher people just because they are seen as weak. I get how strength, or lack thereof, can determine if someone dies…but I don't believe it should determine if someone has to die. Strength has to have a purpose other than death, wouldn't you agree?"

She opens eyes of determination and begins stepping away to resume her travels.

"I believe Noxus has enough bloodthirsty wolves within its gate," he finishes, sheathing his blade.

She replies barely within earshot, perhaps mostly talking to herself, "That makes two of us."

Both wanderers go on their way, in directions that were only physically opposite.

The current Ephrial steps through the last memory, half-smiling in reminiscence. He didn't know the girl he had helped was Riven, the poster child of Noxus, and terror of the Ionian invasion that occurred just after the destruction of his village. Her past doesn't matter to him. People can change, some faster than others. All that matters to him is where a person's heart lies in the present.

Although he may be among the first to admit there are better ways to manage society, Ephrial can agree that determining one's place through strength, regardless of many other factors, to be fair and not inherently evil. It just has to be without arrogance. Without prejudice. Punish those responsible and save a nation from itself…that's justice he can believe in. An endeavor he will gladly lend his strength for, especially with perhaps the only honorable Noxian left. He sees through the Exile's dark past, and aims for a bright future.

"Had your fill of entertainment?" his footsteps come to a halt.

"Intriguing," Lessa huffs, a strain from contesting a will of fire. "You must realize that aiding someone with such a history would severely perturb any possible relations with your Ionian half."

"I'm used to a nation wanting me dead. A few more foes won't hurt."

"The pursuit of your sister's murderer is what brought you here in the first place. That may make the Summoners question your true intent," she points out.

"You need not worry. My path is clear, and I will not stray from it. However…if I should find the one known as 'Warwick' along the way…then I hope you have a good spot for a throw rug," he says, gravely.

"…I see. Now then…" with a stoic glare, she presses the traditional question asked to all who seek admittance to the League. "How does it feel, exposing your mind?"

"Indifferent. Nothing's changed. Although…I do find it odd that such an inquiry would be imposed upon others by those who keep their own records hidden away in a special vault sealed by magic…"

The Summoner has had enough, and departs from him in the same fashion as from the previous room, leaving the swordsman alone in the Chamber of Reflection.

"Fighting against two nations at once while fighting for them," he speaks to himself, drawing his sword. "I guess that's how it has to be. If you're going to reforge something…"

He raises the blade to his face. Flames dance lively along the blade in response to his rising spirit.

"Things have to heat up."