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Chapter 21

Witch's Shadow

Shards of blue, like daggers of ice, whistle over Ephrial's head. With his blade tucked by his side, he answers the attack with his own, launching a streak of flame toward the cloaked enemy. She dodges, her focus changing to the leaping man of muscle as he brings down a slab of stone on her. Deft feet, keen to the ice, weave evasively along the frozen floor with ease.

"My, you're an annoying one, aren't you?" with a wicked smile underneath the hood. "This is not a fight suited for you. You lack a stake in this; a certain sense of…conviction."

With that, imprisoning spikes of ice shoot upward around Braum, leaving him with little space to move.

A small pause in confusion, expecting something more. "I do not understand… That is…all?" The Freljordian man chuckles, priming his weapon, "Shield beats ice!"

She merely tilts her head to the side, resting her cheek on her fist in amusement. With a snap of her fingers, the roof over Braum bursts and collapses over him. Like an enormous, upside-down glacier, the massive weight of the ground and ice they are buried under falls down, with the majority of it still remaining hidden from the eye. Barring death from crushing him is his shield, as the Heart of the Freljord struggles to keep on his feet.

"We've all heard the legends of the mighty man strong enough to oppose an entire mountain. Let's see just how true they really are. I pray you do not disappoint me…" taunting him, and turning her glance to the obliterated mammoth she was holding high expectations of.

A fiery slash sweeps by her—a move slick as ice ducking out of the way.

"As for you… You've no place here, and certainly no business with that."

"Considering my profession, my 'business' is whatever I say it is," the defiance of a mercenary-knight.

"Quite. However, you are a far cry from home, young mortal… Something has brought you here. A purpose involving that which is not yours."

"I suppose that makes two of us."

A short, tittering laughter, "That's it… Let me see the fire that courses through the famous 'Blazing Swordsman'. I shall thoroughly enjoy watching the embers in your eyes fade as I rip out your still-beating heart."

The mysterious figure reveals her true weapon of choice. She takes a small rod of True Ice from underneath her dark robes, and with a small flick of her wrist, causes it to extend its shape outward. A winding form becomes a distinct, viciously bladed whip of mystic ice. Violently, she lashes the frigid air in front of her, sending a thunderous crack echoing within the walls.

Cerulean eyes narrow in focus, running through his analysis of the situation. Braum has been taken out of the fight, yet remains a factor in the form of a liability. Time and collateral damage must be taken into account, as the integrity of the entire room rests, quite literally, on his shoulders. The nameless enemy before him is yet another master of ice, having a commanding field advantage. Her weapon of choice is a difficult one to wield, but extremely effective at controlling a distance.

Pacing in casual intervals, the clandestine woman sends provoking strikes his way, aiming at taunting him rather than a genuine attempt on his life. He reluctantly steps back with each whip, watching her form carefully as he searches for an opening, or a tell-tale weakness to turn into his favor. It's clear to him that she is well-versed in combat, with the flashing style of an assassin. A killer that has gotten a little too cocky, yet perhaps for good reason…

He dashes forward, right as the sharp extension closes in for another clap in the air, rather than after. Seizing the minuscule opening a whip has on its return, he slashes outward as he advances. With deadly grace, she retracts her weapon like a ballerina, twirling along the ice, and causing her weapon to wrap around her like a ribbon. The icy blades deny the assault, and manages to punish Ephrial by clipping him as he passes.

Drips of blood trickle down his fingers as he holds his side, examining the damage. Thin scratches streak along the armor, and the uncovered portion of his midsection is bleeding with a clean cut, staining his shirt a dark crimson.

"Am I not going easy enough for you?" a jeering grin.

Perceptive thoughts at work, "She's just toying with me… With the room set to collapse like a ticking bomb, she feels as though she has already won this fight; merely dragging it out for her entertainment."

Ephrial takes his hand off of the injury and raises it, gazing at the warm vitality growing cold in the frozen atmosphere. The same blood that courses through his veins had once coursed through hers, too… A stream of red, bound by ineluctable oppression to the point of an early demise.

The residual warmth on his fingers fades in the bitter air, and he clenches his hand tightly. Cerina may be gone, but he has never stopped fighting for her. Though she may no longer be able to see it, he still struggles to create a viable future in which she could have had a safe place to live. A normal life without fear of Noxian enmity or Demacian distrust. The aged cycle of war, started by their less-than-noble half, had made Ionia a prison to its own people for years, and concreted the scornful view of anyone from Noxus. Managing to eke out a small village all to their own half-blooded kind was all he could do for her—a regret of limitations holding back the dream of a girl who only wanted to see the world and help those with wounds of body and heart.

A sliver of light peeks out from the pouch on Ephrial's belt, reassuring him that it's not yet over. That dream of such a world lives on. Not an exact replica, but ending war and meaningless bloodshed is nothing short of helping those far beyond the walls of confinement. A former idol of war will become the very key to seeing that mission through. Just as he had fought for his sister, so, too, will he fight for Riven; an ironic twist of polar opposites. Right now, he has already failed…but yesterday hasn't happened yet.

Ephrial takes a stance, forming a new strategy. Ice and fire collide as he takes the defensive, blocking the frozen blades with the flat of his sword. Antagonizing strikes grow impatient, lashing out harder and harder on him.

"Is this all you have to offer? Pah…yet another disappointment. Let us just end this farce quickly!"

An angered whip winds up and hurls forward, slicing through the air like tethered knives. Each repeated assault begins tossing up frost, gradually forming into a set of frozen daggers, materializing and launching outward in the wake of the cynical weapon. Ephrial holds his ground, covering his vitals and holding firm against the onslaught of blades.

The very echoes of the thunderous cracking begin to cause the room to vibrate, causing the mountainous rock in Braum's grip to quake as it slips further. The Freljordian struggles to keep his composure straight as possible, finding himself slowly being pushed down by the incredible weight.

"So short are the lifespans of the uninitiated. Your time is up, mortal!" a fierce swing unleashes her strength on the concentrated point of her weapon's tip.

The Blazing Swordsman steps forward, slashing the winding blades with his own, allowing them to wrap and interlock. The shockwave of the force sends the loose frost on the ground to toss out and away from the epicenter. Flames of fervor burn brightly, consuming the glittering icy blades constricting it. Unwitting to her, the ardent blade has been empowered with each of her blows; her relentless, taunting strikes fueling Ephrial's desire to persevere.

"Wrong. It has just begun."

Using the raw Noxian strength he possesses, he yanks on the line like a fishing rod, sending his enemy flying toward him like a flailing catch of the day. With his sword already winding up from the pull, he readies for a devastating strike at his airborne target.

After a flash of surprise and confusion, the hooded woman clutches a hand upward, commanding the ice between them to form a wall. Ephrial doesn't hesitate to continue his course, slashing straight through the ice, an explosion of fire breaking the solid formation into countless, melting pieces. The mysterious figure bounces along the ground, away from the collision, and her whip skids along with her. Perturbed, but intact, she rises to her feet with a bruised ego and blizzarding rage.

Without a word, she grits her teeth in anger and begins to wind up her weapon, charging forward. Like a blender of frigid daggers, she thrusts it ahead like a tornado on a leash. As the tip spirals forward like a drill, Ephrial focuses in on its trajectory as it heads straight for his head. Using precision to counter precision, he strikes the blade, edge-to-edge, sending it directly back to its wielder.

As the leading blade travels, it takes the rest of its spiraling form with it, each winding round falling short of the mercenary-knight before being called back. Unflinching, oceanic eyes spot a further opening, and he leaps through the rotating hoops with his ardent blade poised.

Facing a double-counter attack, the woman hastily forms a frozen shamshir in her free hand, and parries away the whip. Barely managing to deter the fiery blade from piercing her frozen heart, she leaves herself open for attack again. A swift hand jerks her hood down over her entire visage, and a gilded hilt slams into her stomach, sending her slipping a few feet away as she manages to keep upright.

The momentum of a forced stop causes the loosened, concealing cowl to swing back, revealing her face. Two-toned bangs of white and blue streak elegantly down her forehead, leaving an opening for a tattoo of a crest that can only be assumed as a mark of loyalty. A vexed glare through violet eyes coldly glares at the half-blood.

"You clearly know of me. I think it's time you properly introduced yourself," Ephrial, demanding to know his enemy and her intentions.

Winded from the swift clash. "I need not introduce myself to a dog! Though, it matters not, seeing as you will not be leaving this place alive..." She straightens herself out, with dignity and pride in her voice, "I am Kyrie, personal agent to the rightful Queen of the Freljord. It is my duty to retrieve lost relics of our past…and rid of any nuisances that get in her way."

"Lissandra's puppet, huh? Your skin is as blue as hers, yet the ice under your command isn't corrupted. I suppose you're an Iceborn rather than a Watcher."

"Impertinent—…! You know nothing about me!" cracking her whip though the air in thorny temperment.

"Is that really a surprise? It must be hard to get any recognition when you stand in your queen's shadow, merely running errands like a courier."

Overflowing with enmity, she begins a torrent of furious strikes, taking poised, yet impatient strides. The two collide, blaze and frost clashing in skillful opposites. Brutal precision and deadly elegance face off, wild strikes scarring the already-demolished field.

Using rubble from the ground, Kyrie sweeps her whip along the floor to toss a chunk of debris at Ephrial. He blocks them with his sword, being forced to leave an opening for Lissandra's shadow to launch him backwards with a powerful kick. The mercenary's back slams into the bars of Braum's icy prison, causing a few to crack and crumble.

Reflexes urge him to duck down, avoiding the cruel weapon as it passes over his head, shattering a row of the glacial spikes. Braum falls to a knee, a wince of pain after being swiped by an icy blade.

"Ephrial… You must go! This ice…it is too heavy…even for Braum!" the struggling shield-bearer musters.

Picking himself up with determination. "I don't recall the mountain beating you in that story," referring to the tale Kyrie had referenced earlier.

"Stories are just—…"

"Just stories? There's a reason why they are held onto and passed down like a tradition. Not merely for entertainment, but a message—a lesson to aspire. Whatever that may be is subjective in many cases, but there are those that are more direct than others. Have you already forgotten what lessons made you who you are?" deflecting a vicious whip.

Braum's poro companion appears from cover and leaps onto his knee. With big, friendly eyes, it looks up at him, holding its tongue out as the balls of fur so often do.

With a careful laughter, as not to upset the weight on his shoulders, "You're right. It's as Mother always said…don't lose!" His back tightens and his wavering arms solidify.

"Hang in there."

The Blazing Swordsman sprints forward, up the slanted flooring and toward the icy menace before him. Precision strikes bounce off of each other, deterring severing slices and killing strokes. Pieces of the ceiling begin descending all around them as cracks begin to spider along the room, giving signs of a faltering integrity.

A solid kick knocks the swordsman backward, and a taunting smile appears on Kyrie's face. She raises a hand, as if digging through invisible ground in front of her. A block of ice forms behind Ephrial, and spikes form on its side, poised to maim and impale. She clenches her hand, and the block responds by grinding along the floor as it charges toward the mercenary.

Instead of allowing for a further gap to open between them, and running the risk of getting skewered by dodging a set of needles that can be easily manipulated to do so, he heads straight toward the vicious assassin.

With great annoyance at the unrelenting knight, she swings her arm in a gesture. The spikes respond by launching off the slab, slicing through the air toward their mark. Ephrial, already familiar with such an attack from the Watcher, rolls along the ground, allowing them to pass over his tumbling form while keeping his speed. Taken by her own attack, she materializes the curved blade of a shamshir again, parrying the projectiles into small shards.

Seizing the opportunity, the mercenary-knight cleaves downward as he recovers from the somersault. Kyrie manages to keep the fiery blade at bay with the True Ice of her whip, tossing the sword aside and holding the line taught with both hands. Dark red seeps from her cold grip as her offhand tightens around an icy blade, enduring the pain as she prevents herself from being sliced in half.

"I think there's a reason why the whip is your choice of weapon…" Ephrial's perceiving gaze stares into the fuchsia orbs of his enemy. "It's a commanding armament, able to control a distance as well as its opponents moves. The oppressive style of such a design forcefully demands respect. Needless to say, it's rather noisy for an assassin—far more suited for someone who wants attention."

"Silence! Your life is mine!" a surge of strenuous anger ignites further.

"Can you really take my life if you do not even possess your own?"

"SHUT UP!"

The Iceborn agent pushes him off and winds her whip in fury, ignoring the pain in her hand. Large pieces of the ceiling interrupt the skirmish, falling around and in between them. A wedge of stone and ice crashes betwixt the two, cracking the floor under its heft. With broken concentration, Kyrie loses stable footing, and struggles to recover using her control over ice.

Denying her ability to retaliate, Ephrial swings his sword into the hunk of debris, sending it sliding into Kyrie. Braum's grip quivers slightly due to the room's convulsing, and a full-on quake runs through the building once again. The roof begins falling apart at an accelerating rate, and the air becomes thick with frost and ice crystals as cratering articles of ruin kick up the frozen sediment.

"This is far from over…! I have left my mark on you as my target!" Kyrie points at him from across a growing wall of wreckage. "I shall find you and claim your life. I always do…" the last of her words fading as she disappears into the frosty haze.

Ephrial, weaving between the caving surroundings, rushes toward his trapped ally. "It looks like we've overstayed our welcome."

"Go, friend! Braum will hold little longer…!" under immense pressure.

A gilded blade breaks the remaining pillars of caging ice. "Not an option. Let's go while we still have an opening," pointing at the hallway atop the demolished stairways.

"Hurry! This is no time—"

"We're getting you out of here, whether you like it or not. Now, get ready…"

Ephrial hatches a plan to safely knock Braum out of the way of the mountain of frozen earth. He runs behind a block of ice left by Kyrie, slicing the face into a smooth, partially-melted surface as he passes by. The mercenary sheathes his blade, and braces himself in a sword-draw stance. Undying flames, contained within the sheath, begin to create a strong, outward pressure that Ephrial holds bottled with his hand firmly on the hilt.

After a moment of build-up, he swings outward, unleashing a very swift, concentrated torrent of fire and metal. The blast smashes into the block, in turn, sliding straight into Braum, carrying him from out of the hold. Along the way, the ice melts, and the Freljordian catches himself with his shield. With a tumultuous crash, the mountain of ice and rock meteors into the ground, shaking the very foundation of the entire palace. The mercenary catches up to the strongman and his poro, and the two push through their exhaustion, racing to the exit before the entire room surrenders to gravity.

"There are no stairs! You must go first!" priming his shield.

"Very well."

Ephrial follows along, and springs off the shield with assistance, landing a grip on the balcony's rail. He pulls himself up and swings his legs over, then turns around, looking for a way to allow Braum to ascend.

"It is okay, Ephrial. Every adventure has its end! At least I got to see—"

The sound of a fiery slash cuts him off, and the large mural of Avarosa tits down on its axis. A regal frame tumbles below, wedging itself in the fallen wreckage, forming a ramp for the Heart of the Freljord to climb with ease.

"—Enough of that already. Let's go." Ephrial extends his arm out to aid Braum up in the last bit of distance where the painting cuts short.

A large hand clasps around his wrist, and the mercenary-knight tightly braces himself for the extreme heft of the hulking Freljordian and his shield. With the painful strain of pulling most of their weight up, he aids Braum in the summit, and they begin a sprint through a very long, dark hallway of a royal passage. The two can barely see the vapor of their breath, huffing in front of them through the bitter air as they approach a light in the distance.

Raging sounds of an avalanche chase them up the slope of their escape. Every step towards their freedom is a possible end to their misadventure. With death on their heels, they push themselves with the very strength that bore them figures of renown tales. Together, they leap out of the final stretch, avoiding the devastating force spewing out after them, tossing sharp edges and small boulders of ice and rock. The two turn around, watching as an entire plane of snow collapses downwards to fill the gap of the palace that had given in, forever burying the ancient secrets within.

Heavily breathing, "You are certainly…stubborn…like ram of highest peak."

"…I've been told something like that before…"

"You refused to take no for answer, even in the face of giant, crushing death… Is this what you mean by fighting fate?" thinking back to the mammoth they had faced.

"I suppose… It's complicated."

"I see… I have learned much from you, friend! This has been great adventure, indeed!"

Ephrial puts a hand over the pouch on his belt, finding it light and empty. A brief moment of shock is quelled by a wash of relief, spotting Avarosa's Eye in the snow in front of them. Tired, but unrelenting, he trails through the powdery terrain, knee-high in the frozen tundra.

"The Watchers…we must warn Ashe of their return…" the Freljordian says gravely, thinking over of the events that have just transpired.

"Then you might wish to leave immediately. While I might otherwise find myself fighting for your cause, I simply haven't the time…"

Before Ephrial can get in grabbing distance, a rustling in the snow abruptly pops up from the wintery sheet. Perfectly camouflaged fur surrounds two coal eyes that blink at him with a bemused look. The giant, rabbit-like creature looks down at the warm, glowing sphere in front of it. With its deceivingly-wide jaws, it snaps up the sphere and stores it in a cheek-pouch, now bulging out prominently from its head. A snowy figure hops off, leaving obvious footprints in the snow as it flees.

Ephrial and Braum watch in perplexity as the unexpected thief scampers into the wilderness. The swordsman sighs, placing a hand over the hilt of his blade as he takes the first steps of a hunting trip.

"…You've got to be kidding me."