Dark clouds are smouldering into red

While down the craters morning burns.

The dying soldier shifts his head

To watch the glory that returns;

He lifts his fingers toward the skies

Where holy brightness breaks in flame;

Radiance reflected in his eyes,

And on his lips a whispered name.

How To Die (Siegfried Sassoon)

TWENTY-EIGHT DAYS LATER…

The Howling Marsh was once called Jacob's Ford, but a poorly-directed spell had accidentally raised the dead who had fallen in the field. The ravenous things had consumed a good number of the 1st Noxian Legion, the so-called 'Glorious First'. No one knew if the mage who had cast it was a Noxian or a Demacian, but once the Glorious First had been ravaged, both Demacian and Noxian armies had made a hasty retreat. No one knew why the undead never went past the borders of the swamp, but the creatures stayed where they had been raised.

Despite the presence of mindless shambling corpses that sought human flesh, the perilous Howling Marsh was still considered as part of the Noxian front line, and High Command had made an effort to shore up their position there. According to the aristocratic officers who often named the camps, the humble collection of tents and firepits close to the Howling Marsh was named Camp Endurance.

The edges of the Howling Marsh were mostly made of rolling hills- a side effect of tectonic magic somewhere to the north- and Camp Endurance was positioned on the highest one so as to give a good view of the surrounding area. The ground underneath it was fairly firm. Around it, the Noxians had pushed the soil to make low earthen walls. It wouldn't do much against artillery but it would give infantry and cavalry some measure of pause.

Due east some ten miles away was Outpost Greywolf, and the smaller and relatively undefended posting was the only way for those at Endurance to know if the Demacians were approaching from that direction. Thanks to the distance between the two camps and the overcast conditions, signal lanterns and runners were the only way to pass the word between the two. It was not that important enough, and its commander not at all trustworthy, to merit a communication shard.

For the men who actually were posted there, they took to calling it Camp Creepy, because of the undead that roamed in the swamp and the heavy smell of death that hung over the entire place. Given the surrounding area, the camp was not precisely high on the list of priorities that High Command had and was poorly manned compared to other camps.

The Noxian chain of command normally held a Major responsible for the daily operation of a camp, but as Camp Creepy was not exactly a luxury posting, many aristocrats paid more to avoid being assigned to it. For those who hated someone down the chain, it was an easy matter to pay a Provost Marshal of the Corps in order to send someone down into the armpit of hell. Of course, that person would also most likely pay to avoid such a fate, and then the entire process would repeat until the Provost Marshals of the Corps found someone who had very little means to avoid Camp Creepy.

Sion, the renowned axe warrior, was not one of those men who avoided assignments they did not like, but neither was he someone who could not afford paying his way to avoid such inconveniences. He had very little wants in life other than the satisfaction of cleaving someone in half with his Chopper, and most of his pay went into the Funds like most career soldiers during his time. To ensure that he saw action as often as he could and that he had some measure of personal freedom, Sion had stopped buying promotions the moment he had reached the rank of captain.

As most of the officers in Boram Darkwill's military knew each other to some extent, those from on high did not want to grant Sion a higher rank as they saw him as nothing but an uncivilized brute. In the end, Sion's captaincy and willingness to remain where he belonged- crawling in the mud with the rest of the men in both the negative and positive connotations- was not objected to at all.

The Camp Commander of Camp Creepy, therefore, was only a Captain who held a captain's pay, but Sion held a Major's authority due to having been given a brevet, and so on paper Camp Endurance was no different from the rest. Given the toxicity of the Noxian chain of command, brevets were more or less the equivalent of sticking plasters. To be granted a brevet was to be given a temporary promotion- in essence, one possessed the authority and the responsibility behind the rank, but one was not given the same amount of pay or even precedence.

As most sane people wished to avoid a miserable deployment close to a haunted, stinking swamp, not everyone actually was at the rank they were supposed to be on paper. Thusly, Sion had only been given the brevet of a Major because he was literally the highest ranking man in Camp Creepy.

In a place such as Camp Creepy, the only concern for the officers was to see to the welfare of the men. All other concerns- the heady death-smell, the vaguely human shapes shambling in the distant fog, the threat of Demacians braving the marsh and approaching from the east- were insignificant. So there was some semblance of routine in Camp Creepy, and Sion had grown tired of it after the first week. He was not the sort to complain about being posted somewhere unpleasant, but he was the sort to complain about a lack of action. He had the 51st Battalion's Sergeant Major, who in reality was only a master sergeant, write all of his grievance letters for him as he could hardly do it himself, let alone read. Still, messages were lost all the time when their runners were not prudent with their duties… or were paid to accidentally lose missives.

If he had a choice, he would have abandoned Camp Creepy for a few weeks in order to make his point to the higher ups clear with Chopper, but he was not the sort to dismiss orders as mere guidelines either. If anything, Sion relished being at the front- and this posting was the farthest one from the rather fluid Noxian backline.

It was a familiar scene that balmy morning; Sion was standing by Sergeant Major Corriel and the two of them were in the sparsely furnished command tent hunched over a beaten old desk, the former looking impatient and the latter's brow furrowed as his hand curled about a bent quill, writing shaky and smudged letters onto the parchment.

Corriel was a somewhat educated man; his father was an officer in the Treasury Office, though the man had disowned him when his offspring had gotten too deep in his pockets and in cups. So here he was now, in Camp Creepy, writing missives for an officer who didn't know how to read or write.

"-And then tell them I fucking want to be moved up," Sion grumbled as he tapped his thick fingers on the rotten wood of the table. "Maybe to Adder, or even Headhunter. This place is shit."

"This place is shit." Corriel agreed with a miserable nod of his head as he wrote as much onto the paper- complete with curse words.

Where other commanders would've admonished the Sergeant Major for his remark, Sion gave him a rough pat on the head- like a man would do to a puppy.

"Maybe High Command'll actually reply this time." Sion said.

At Corriel's look, the Major added. "I've got nothing else to say."

Duly finished with the chore of writing his commander's letter for him, Corriel made an unhappy noise in his throat. He signed the letter- using Sion's name because Sion's writing was illegible on his best try- and then folded it up and sealed it with black wax.

"How are the boys?" Sion probed as Corriel put the sealed letter inside an oilskin envelope; a luxury given Camp Creepy's low supply priority. It would be given to the next messenger who decided to grace the camp with their presence. Corriel didn't want to send anyone out for fear of having the assigned runner desert.

With the morale in Camp Creepy, the Sergeant Major couldn't trust anyone to come back.

"Bored out of their fucking minds." Corriel replied without preamble and with all due frankness. "Greywolf signaled early this morning, so the next check-in would be around lunch hour."

Sion stared at the entrance of the tent. He did not have the best eyesight now that he was pushing sixty, but he could still see over the short dirt walls they had erected about the camp. The earthy, somewhat rotten smell of the air was rather pronounced today. The skies above were the usual dull grey, what light and warmth the sun could shed down on them was filtered heavily by dense clouds. The fog hung low and thick in the marsh. Outside their simple dirt walls, nothing stirred- not even the insects.

Another boring day, Sion thought to himself. Another fucked up, boring day.

"We're gonna get our fair share of action one of these days." He murmured to himself as he stroked Chopper's haft.

Corriel sighed, and Sion looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Was his Sergeant Major a coward? Did he not want to fight?

"Are you afraid of the enemy, Corriel?" Sion asked him in a deliberate, sharp tone. Other people thought him stupid, which was all well and good. It made their expressions of shock when Sion beat their faces in for their nonsense all the more amusing.

"No sir." Came the soldier's glum reply, though he could see the man had tensed somewhat at his commander's tone. "Just bored, sir."

"One day." Sion said vehemently. "One day, we'll get some action. You'll see. And then it'll be fun."

"… Sir." Corriel responded simply. "I'm going to go do the rounds, sir." Clearly, he didn't want to talk anymore.

Sion waved Chopper in his general direction, and Corriel exited the tent faster than he would have on a normal day. Sion made a disdainful grunt in his throat and exited the tent himself.

When is the enemy going to come? He thought as his fingers tightened about Chopper's haft, his wrinkled knuckles white with impatience. When?

Little did they know, the Demacians were on their way, and they were closer than most people in High Command had thought.

Ten miles away, at Outpost Greywolf, two men were watching the goings-on at Camp Creepy: one was sitting atop a plain brown horse, the other was settled on a splendidly-bred grey charger.

With short auburn hair not yet streaked with white, grey eyes that keenly gleamed with intellect and a sinewy frame, Lord Maximilian Spiritmight was fairly young for a Marshal at thirty-seven. As the King's brother-in-law, however, he had been given the promotion as part of his sister Catherine's bridewealth.

The young man by his side was Garen Crownguard. In the distant future he would become the Might of Demacia, and would replace his father as commander of the Dauntless Vanguard when time came. At the moment, he was unusually tall and robust for his age of thirteen; his head had been shaved to leave a strip of short brown hair at the center, giving him a rather severe look that was only accentuated by his blue eyes.

In adherence to Demacian custom, nobles in high positions mentored officers of lesser blood or lower-ranked aristocrats so as to continue their education beyond that which they already were given by the city-state, in the process molding them into ideal Demacian officers and commanders.

As a Marshal with command over three regiments, then, Lord Spiritmight was considered as one of the best options for young men who wished to advance in Demacian society, and his former mentees were other men of great repute and high honor.

When Marcus Crownguard had privately shared to King Jarvan the Third the desire for Garen to succeed him as commander of the Dauntless Vanguard some three years ago, the King had given his approval.

With nothing but the word of his father and some measure of talking between the King and his brother-in-law, Garen had been placed under Lord Spiritmight's command as his latest mentee. Now they were observing the Noxian camp in the distance, three bodies littering the ground near their horses' hooves while the bulk of the division remained at the reverse slope where the bigger Noxian camp would not immediately see them.

Lord Spiritmight had sent a messenger to the Noxians who had manned this post earlier, asking for their explicit surrender. Most had fled when they saw the ten thousand men in the distance, but there had been three people who had stayed behind. These men were now gathering flies and watering the earth with their blood.

Garen hadn't seen the wisdom of sending a messenger asking for surrender, but at the same time he hadn't wanted to question Lord Spiritmight. Still, the desire to ask 'why' was much like an annoying itch on the curve of his ear. He told himself to keep his mouth shut as Lord Spiritmight watched the Noxian camp with his extendable spyglass.

The ideal Demacian officer did not speak unless spoken to, that was one of the first rules Lord Spiritmight had told him. He would be obedient. He would be the best.

After some time, Lord Spiritmight lowered the spyglass and twisted his lip.

"This poor light is making the view rather difficult; you've sharper eyes than I do, lad. What do you see there?" Lord Spiritmight passed the copper and gold inlaid spyglass to the young man next to him. The brown-haired youth took it with all due seriousness and raised it to his eye.

Garen didn't know what he was supposed to see. He had been told by Lord Spiritmight that they would be assaulting a camp, but that sorry place with squat dirt walls and patched-up tents looked nothing at all like the walled forts he was used to seeing in Demacian territory.

"Low dirt walls and a few tents, Your Lordship." Garen replied slowly- he thought it was best to be frank. He squinted through the spyglass, counted the bobbing heads and then added. "Maybe… a few hundred men."

"A paltry number, not one that we expected to see." Lord Spiritmight repeated with a dry note at the end of his voice. "Well. A camp is a camp and a fox is a fox, despite it not being a very good fox."

Garen wondered what he meant and tried not to scratch the itch. No, a good Demacian officer does not question his superior. He didn't want to be bad.

"We must open the ball very soon. We are on an inflexible schedule after all," Lord Spiritmight's smile was rather wooden. "Tell me, lad, what time is it?"

"A little after six, Your Lordship." Garen supplied obediently as soon as he had figured out the time from the watch he wore at his belt. He wasn't wearing heavy armor, as speed had been of the essence when they had departed from Fort Justice a day earlier, taking one cavalry regiment and two regiments of foot with them.

"We shall open the ball…" Lord Spiritmight was musing out loud as he tapped his gloved fingers on his saddle's decorated pommel. The King's brother-in-law looked deep in thought, as if he was considering the strategies needed to take the camp.

Garen didn't see how it was going to be difficult- they had three regiments, which was more or less ten thousand men, to the Noxian's three hundred or so. It wouldn't be very hard.

"No better time to learn than today," Lord Spiritmight said with a lazy relish. "Tell me, lad, what do you think is a good time for us to begin our assault?"

Garen thought of it. He felt that they had to strike now, while the Noxians did not know that their outpost had been taken.

"Now, Your Lordship?" Garen replied hopefully.

"T'would do to remember the Measured Tread, lad." Lord Spiritmight reminded him with a note of disappointment in his voice.

Of course, the Measured Tread- the ideal Demacian was just and fair, even to his enemies. Immediately, Garen wished he had never said such, though the itch flared up- demanding the reasoning behind the man's words.

No, he couldn't question him. He simply couldn't. It wouldn't do.

"Look through the glass again," The King's brother-in-law offered kindly. "What are they doing?"

Garen did so. The sight that greeted him was strangely domestic. He had been told that Noxians were nothing but ravenous, bloodthirsty beasts, but these people looked like men.

"… Shaving and dressing up, Your Lordship," Garen responded after a while- again he decided that frankness was his best option. "… And eating."

"Would you wish to be interrupted whilst doing your morning rituals, lad?"

"… No, Your Lordship." Garen replied at once with all the naivety of youth. It seemed like the right answer.

"Precisely," Lord Spiritmight said with a little glint in his eye. Garen took it to be his approval, and felt better about his previous mistake.

"We must always be fair, even to those who oppose us." The King's brother-in-law went on. "'Tis in the Measured Tread, and we must always obey the Measured Tread, no?"

Lord Spiritmight glanced at him again, and those grey eyes of his seemed to be searching for something.

Garen didn't want to disappoint him.

"Yes, Your Lordship." Garen dipped his head, and this seemed to satisfy the Marshal.

"So, to our order of battle this morn. We shall move closer to this camp, but we must keep to the reverse slopes to hide our numbers," Lord Spiritmight held out a gloved hand, and Garen passed him the spyglass. "Five miles closer, I think- t'would allow us some time. At ten o'clock we shall send a messenger to that camp to ask for their immediate surrender. T'would only be fair to give them some measure of dignity and leave to retreat. If they decide to stand and fight, then we shall give them a good licking."

But three regiments, against what looked to be three hundred at the most? Where was the fairness in that? Garen chewed at his lip, and the Marshal glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"You are allowed to ask, lad." Lord Spiritmight offered. "'Tis the reason why you were placed under my wing- to learn."

Garen thought of it. How could he say his question?

"I… I do not think it fair," He said very slowly, his voice cracking about the edges. "To bring ten thousand men against what looks to be, at most, three hundred men, si- Your Lordship."

Lord Spiritmight smiled again. It wasn't wooden or practiced like before, but it didn't feel very welcoming, either. Garen didn't know if he had just stepped over the line or if his query was welcome.

"That," Lord Spiritmight said with a strange tone in his voice as he dug in his heels and urged his horse into a walk. "Is why we are offering them the choice of sparing their lives with a surrender, lad. We all have a choice, and we must always offer the enemy the option to save their lives. Else we are nothing but the lowest of the low- like those Noxians, hm?"

Of course, Garen thought at once as he followed the Marshal's example, that made sense.

"'Tis six o'clock, by your reckoning," Lord Spiritmight said casually. "Our move shan't be 'til ten. We've plenty of time to catch up on your reading while the army moves along the reverse slopes; always remember, lad, an impending assault is no excuse to avoid the written word. Once we've finished Durand's treatise on inanimate constructs, we shall move on to other subjects. What do you propose to study later this evening?"

"Perhaps Antoine's infantry stratagems, Your Lordship?" Garen offered eagerly- he had seen the book in the Marshal's list of reading materials, and he wanted nothing more than to learn more on how infantry should be used.

"Certainly."

As the Demacians crept along the cover of the slopes, the Noxian camp in question remained blissfully unaware of Outpost Greywolf's surrender. When the battered hourglass that hung outside the command tent signaled the tenth hour, a runner emerged from Outpost Greywolf, and the Noxians at Camp Creepy had initially thought the man was one of their own.

To their immense surprise, the rider atop the bay horse stopped short outside of the dirt walls, and it was only then that the sentries had noticed the man was wearing the uniform Demacian blue and yellow instead of the typical black and mottled brown commonly seen on poorer Noxian messengers who couldn't afford other colors.

After that, the sentries had scrambled madly down the slope of the dirt walls, making a mad dash for the command tent.

Sion had been sharpening Chopper on a grindstone when the first of many panicked men practically ran into his tent, and then the rest of them were soon piling on each other outside. The nominal Major had taken one look at the panicked man's face and had smiled.

"What is it?" The axe warrior asked.

The first man could hardly speak- his throat was not cooperating and he was shaking like a leaf in the gale, so the Major stared at the next man to come into the tent- Corriel, the Sergeant Major.

"Demacians," Corriel said grimly, and it was clear from his tone that he was very apprehensive. Perhaps he felt their prospects were not very good.

Sion smiled as he lifted Chopper from the grindstone. "How many?"

"One," Corriel supplied as he followed the Major outside. "Just a messenger; the Demacians always send one or two in first. I'd say the bulk of the army is likely going to be on us within the hour."

Sion's grip tightened about his axe, his smile widening enough to show his yellowed teeth.

Finally.

The messenger was still there, and he sat straight in his saddle despite the number of nocked arrows pointed at him. He was young, lean and barely looked twenty.

"What message?" Sion demanded outright. The Demacian stared at him in marked surprise for a moment- perhaps he had expected someone else- before he cleared his throat and spoke.

"I carry the voice of His Lordship the Duke of Endurn, who invites you to save your lives." The messenger enunciated. "My terms are thus: leave now and we shall not harm you. Stand and fight, and we shall answer with the same."

Sion's grin widened into a death-rictus, and it was the last that the messenger saw before Chopper separated his head from his neck.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!?" Corriel shouted at him as the head fell. The Demacian's head streaked the horse's side with blood, and thusly startled, the animal gave a shrill shriek and turned, galloping towards Outpost Greywolf with the corpse still in the saddle.

"I gave them an answer." Sion replied, his smile still on his face. "Finally; don't you see? This is it. This is our time."

"IF YOU HAD JUST SURRENDERED-" Corriel began hysterically, but Sion cut him off. Literally.

The two halves that had once made a man fell to the ground, and Sion gave the rest of the camp a deathly serious stare, the light in his eyes fervent and disturbingly sharp.

"Anyone else?" The axe warrior sneered as the motley assembly of men quaked in their boots.

Despite their shaking frames, pale faces and stained trousers, no one answered him.

The horse returned an hour later, and it didn't take long for Garen to notice that the rider no longer had a head. He tried to ignore the chill in his gut.

"They killed Ferris," Garen croaked out with a throat that was suddenly dry as he passed the spyglass back.

"'Tis rather unfortunate that they wish to fight, but we shan't disappoint." Lord Spiritmight remarked with genuine disappointment. "… We do not need to stay by the reverse slopes- it does not look to have rained here and the lay of the land seems dry. If we are to commandeer that camp, we must move now. Please send word to Lords de Lioncourt and la Bédoyère to begin the march."

Normally, he would've moved to do the man's request, but Garen found that he could not. He felt glued to his horse and unable to move. He had known Ferris, and just an hour earlier, he had wanted to be the one to take the message to the Noxians.

If he had been the one to ride out, he would have died.

"... Unfortunate." Lord Spiritmight repeated with a fatherly pat on his shoulder. "They could simply have refused poor Ferris and sent him back to us, but these Noxians- as you can see- are violent creatures who would prefer to destroy the messenger. 'Tis not your fault, lad."

As an afterthought, the Marshal gave him a little nudge and added. "Please tell the musicians to do a marching song as well. We shall need to raise their spirits. Ferris was well-liked."

With only an hour left to live, the men posted at Camp Creepy were not very optimistic of their chances. Sion had asked the two hundred and thirty men to make their preparations as best as they could, and when ten had tried to run away, Chopper was quick to cut them down. There were only two hundred and twenty now, and all of them looked resigned and unhappy.

Sion was honestly disappointed, but then again- not everyone was a warrior. Not everyone enjoyed being on the field of battle. It would've been nice, to have someone who understood- like Hystaspes or Urgot- but the Wolfman had been executed years ago and the High Executioner was never at the front thanks to his disfigurement.

No one appreciated battle as much as the three of them had in those days, although… Sion briefly played with the thought of having Darius by his side.

He hadn't known the boy for very long, and his posting to Camp Creepy had made contact impossible, but Sion could still remember Hystaspes' proud and animated smile as he told his battle brothers about his firstborn: bloody and bloated from the birth, a minute hadn't even passed before the Wolfman's cub had punched the midwife in the eye.

The three of them all had high hopes for the Wolfman's firstborn then, and knowing that Darius was this year's Baton would have made Hystaspes very proud. Urgot and Sion were not precisely the sort to stay with a woman, and Hystaspes had been the only close friend who had managed to sire children.

If anything, he wished for the Wolfman's son to be here now, to see him end his life in glorious battle as his father would also have wanted, but such a thing was not to be.

When sentries on the wall sent word that they had seen the first Demacian regiment emerge from the low fog, Sion stood up from his seat and left the command tent with a smile. It was not the sadistic death-rictus that he had worn when he had killed Ferris, but it was a genuine smile that carried light into his eyes and in his step.

Even with his poor eyes, he could see the Demacians assembling outside the low walls. The commanders were all the way in the backline as expected- with the pompous-looking one in the middle the chief among them from the way the other three kept glancing at him. He could see them toasting with glasses of what looked to be wine, with a man nearby holding a silver tray.

Assholes.

The men under his command were all lined up, their weapons gleaming with polish or poison. Some looked as if they were ready to vomit, while others looked resigned to their fate. He took his place at the head of the wretched column as they marched out to meet the enemy, and thought of those who had gone before him into death.

"To today's fox, gentlemen." Lord Spiritmight said as he raised his glass.

Garen followed suit, though he didn't know why he had to. It seemed very disrespectful to the young man, to be toasting to other people's deaths but he kept his mouth shut and sipped politely at the red wine.

"The big one," Lord la Bédoyère said casually, as if he were picking out horses in a fair. "I think I've seen him before, Your Lordship."

"It is Sion." Lord de Lioncourt answered for him. "He was one of those reckless blighters at Mogron Pass years ago, along with the Wolfman."

"My father fought the Wolfman," Lord Spiritmight said, his tone strange and soft. Garen couldn't help but glance at him. The King's brother-in-law looked very somber as he continued with a slight croak. "… He lost."

There was a second's pause after that, all the cheer had seemingly vanished from the air, and no one seemed willing to interrupt the Duke of Endurn until he had pulled himself out of his thoughts.

"… I wonder where he is now." Lord Spiritmight said finally. "Do you think he's still with the army? The Wolfman?"

"Light rest your father's soul, Your Lordship." Lord de Lioncourt said sympathetically.

"I think it would please you to know that the Wolfman is dead, Your Lordship." la Bédoyère replied with a curl of his lip. "I heard he was eaten alive by wolves when he failed Darkwill's expectations."

Lord Spiritmight's laugh was not very long. It lasted only for maybe two or three seconds but it was full in voice and amusement. At once, the other two lords smiled, and Garen felt ashamed when he found that he could not muster the will to do so also.

"A fitting end, and not at all an unusual one, knowing Darkwill." Lord Spiritmight remarked with a smile as the assembled lords gave approving nods. "'Tis the fate of monsters; we should be glad that we are not such creatures."

"Hear, hear." They raised their glasses again and drank to the thought.

How are these people monsters? Garen couldn't help but think as he glanced at the Noxian soldiers. They look human to me.

"I have a query, Your Lordship. If I may?" la Bédoyère stared at the Marshal politely.

"You may," Lord Spiritmight replied primly.

"We are close to the Howling Marsh. These men may rise from the dead also, if we kill them here."

"My lords, the dead do not walk if they do not have heads." Lord Spiritmight replied confidently. "I fought the risen dead here, when this place was still Jacob's Ford. We shall kill them, and then we shall behead them all. This engagement should not trouble us more than an hour."

"If you do not mind, I shall take you up on that bet, Your Lordship." Lord de Lioncourt said with a cheeky grin.

"I haven't been wrong before, my lord de Lioncourt. Perhaps you shall have a lighter coin purse once this engagement is done." Lord Spiritmight rubbed his gloved hands together. "Shall we? Sion looks to be waiting for us to make the first move."

"That is how he fights; when he sees our men engaged, he will charge through the weakest lines and attempt to kill us. Perhaps we should remedy that. May I offer a suggestion, Your Lordship?" Lord de Lioncourt looked at Lord Spiritmight for permission, and then when it was granted with a nod, he continued. "Look at their faces; I do not think his men will follow him into battle."

"They look the sort to run." la Bédoyère commented. "Perhaps another attempt could be made, Your Lordship?"

"I'll take your naïve advice," Lord Spiritmight said with an amused glance at the younger lord. "We shall make the hare run, if he is willing to run. After all, we cannot fight those who do not wish to fight, t'would not be just. Howard, my speaking trumpet, if you please."

The nearby steward, who was not on a horse at all, took his glass. After a few minutes of searching through a nearby trunk, he placed a gilded speaking trumpet in the Marshal's gloved hand.

"Ho there, Noxians!" Lord Spiritmight's voice carried clear and loud thanks to the enchanted trumpet. The Noxians opposite them looked up in surprise at being addressed. "I am Lord Maximilian Spiritmight, Commander of the 5th Division, and Duke of Endurn. Once more I invite you to save your lives; you have my word that we shan't kill those who do not wish to fight. Merely lay down your arms, and we shall grant your capitulation all due deference."

Garen could see their eyes, and he knew that the men across him were seriously considering the offer. All of them looked starved, afraid and in need of a good bath, and only the big scarred one seemed eager and remotely happy. He didn't know why the big one was happy; wouldn't a man be afraid of death when it was staring at him in the face?

Please accept. Garen found himself thinking. I don't want to kill you. Not when you all look resigned. This isn't waging war.

The big one raised his thumb and drew it across his throat; a clear refusal. His men looked the exact opposite, however, and knowing their commander had his back turned they lowered their weapons very slowly, so as to not alert him to their actions.

But two hundred or so men lowering their weapons at the same time was bound to make some measure of noise, and eventually the big one turned to look at the soldiers under his command.

Garen found himself tightening his grip on his horse's reins.

"All of you?" Sion said simply, his Neanderthal brow furrowed and his already small eyes narrowed to slits. No one could meet his gaze. They were all shaking in their boots, and he could smell the scent of urine and feces in the air.

How pathetic.

To think that he had once been concerned for these men, that he had once tried to teach them of battle as it had been for him when he was still in his prime. These creatures were nothing but spineless wretches who knew nothing at all of battle, or of glory. They didn't wish for death in the field as they should have- no. They only wished to live, even if it was a pathetic existence lower than the slugs that crawled on the marshy ground.

"I will fight." Sion said with a snarl as his rage brewed underneath his skin. The sorry display made him absolutely furious. When did it become wrong to enjoy a glorious death? When did battle become something that had to be avoided, instead of embraced? What had happened for the next generation to disdain war, to see self-preservation as being better than obtaining a good death?

To be given this sort of response- where were the good men? The men who knew the value of a good death? Where were they all?

You would have been disappointed, Hystaspes. These children are not like us, he found himself thinking in his fury. I wonder, is your son the same sort?

But… surely Darius understood? Darius, who had been raised by the Wolfman himself, knew what a good death was. Sion had been there when the Wolfman and his wife had died, and he had seen Darius' face and remembered that the boy had not faltered at all.

Darius would know. Darius seemed to understand.

Sion shook his head in disappointment and turned his back on his men. He stared at the Demacians and gripped Chopper's haft tightly in his hands as the Noxian line behind him began to dissolve. One man against what seemed to be an endless number of foes. It was not the very best of odds, but it was, in every sense of the phrase, a good death.

He took comfort in that, and in the knowledge that even if his men had not the strength or the willingness to follow him into this battle, there were some in the world who still knew the value of a good death.

As the Noxians began to flee, leaving the big one alone outside the deserted camp, Lord Spiritmight smiled benevolently as he passed his speaking trumpet back to his steward. "Well, that was an excellent suggestion, la Bédoyère. I commend you for your thinking. We have obtained terms, gentlemen."

"T'was well done, Your Lordship," Lord de Lioncourt responded. "Very well done. The quicker Sion dies, the faster we can rendezvous with the rest of the army."

"Yes," Lord Spiritmight said. "And when this advance is over, we can all return to the comforts of civilization."

"Hear, hear." The two lords nodded.

Garen stared at Sion, who was baring his teeth and howling indecipherable curses at the Demacians, and then at Lord Spiritmight, who was staring at what he had in front of him as if he was merely playing chess.

All his life he had been told that Noxians were nothing but monsters. They looked frightening, certainly, and they were so different, but still- even a man who was going to die deserved better chances than this.

"Your Lordship," Garen began hesitantly, and Lord Spiritmight looked up and tilted his head at him. "I… I would like to fight him. Alone."

"A puerile proposition, lad." Lord Spiritmight chuckled at him. "'Tis no fault of ours that his men chose to abandon him."

"But Your Lordship- one man against ten thousand?" Garen said at once, pity and kindness overwhelming his concern to remain an obedient Demacian. "It isn't fair! Please, Your Lordship, please! Let me fight him!"

"He chose this fate for himself, lad." Lord Spiritmight pointed out carefully. "He chose to keep his axe in his hand, he chose to stay even if he saw that his men had abandoned him to save themselves. 'Tis no fault of ours and we shall fight him according to terms."

Garen glanced at Sion again- saw that he was now beating at his chest with a fist and daring the Demacians to come to him. He could only mentally scream his frustration at the Noxian warrior. Why waste your life? What point is there in staying, when you knew you're going to die? What point is there in fighting, if it would be nothing but painful?

"Your Lordship," Garen looked at the King's brother-in-law again, his tone pleading and cracking with his distress. "Please."

"I gave your father my word that I would keep you safe, lad." Lord Spiritmight admonished him sternly; his tone as cold as his eyes and backed with steel. "You wish to fight this thing, to throw away your future in order to grant this beast some semblance of decency? I shan't risk your life in that manner! Now be quiet."

Garen recoiled away from the older man as if he had just slapped him, and stared desperately at Sion as Lord Spiritmight spoke the words he would remember for the rest of his life.

"The Blues of Cresson will advance! Put him to the sword and take his head."

At the pompous-looking one's words, the infantry began to move towards him. Despite the frustration, the disappointment that had kept his rage boiling- this was it. This was his glorious end.

He had lived a life filled with nothing but war and fighting, and he would meet his end in such a way that it was impossible for others to not remember him. Even if his men had abandoned him, even if no Noxian was left to see him meet his doom, these Demacians were, and these Demacians would remember him as that man who fought against ten thousand.

Though he knew he would die he could not help but smile.

This was a glorious death.

A good death.

"To death and to friends long gone; I'm going home." He said softly.

He charged and as he did, he thought of better days and of friends who had passed on ahead of him.

The entirety of the Demacian division collapsed about Sion like water engulfing a rock. As they hewed away at him, he never screamed in pain- he only laughed. He returned their blows with his great axe, but never seriously wounded anyone as the massive blade bounced off ready shields. No matter how big of a man he was, soon even his head fell underneath the mass of weapons and armor that had converged upon him.

"The hare has been caught." Lord Spiritmight said with a satisfied note in his voice. "I will expect a handsome sum from you, Lord de Lioncourt."

As the nobles bickered about him playfully, Garen felt sick.

He felt like crying, but then again- why should he cry for a Noxian who had fought despite depressing odds? Why should he weep for a man he barely knew?

He had never been outside of Demacia until now. He had never heard of what Sion had done. Perhaps Sion had deserved such a fate. Perhaps Sion had wished to die in that manner.

It was as Lord Spiritmight had said- he had chosen to keep his weapon, he had chosen to stand and fight. One man's folly was just that- his.

"Justice has been done," Lord Spiritmight's voice pierced his thoughts as a great cheer went up; a man had put Sion's head on a spear, and the scarred face was twisted in a bared grin. "Ferris may rest in peace now."

"Yes, Your Lordship," Garen replied slowly as he composed himself.

He shouldn't feel sorry. It was Sion's choice.

"We are Demacians," Lord Spiritmight remarked as the bloody trophy was toted about. "And we are men of our word."

"Hear, hear," la Bédoyère said with a smile and a nod.

The musicians had started to play a joyful tune on their instruments, lending a cheery, festive air that contrasted with the sight of Sion's hewn, trodden on and mangled corpse as the rest of the division advanced.

The news of Sion's death would not reach High Command until two days after the grisly fact, when three deserters from Camp Creepy returned to the army. After hearing of the man's demise from their mouths, Boram Darkwill had ordered the deserters killed, and the man to see to it had been Urgot, the High Executioner himself.

Having returned to the front almost a month before Sion died at Camp Endurance, Darius had not been privy to the news, and as word of the loss would not do morale any good, most of the soldiers who served in the Noxian army remained in blissful ignorance of Camp Creepy's capitulation.

Camp Creepy was only one amongst many. All across the Noxian front, camps that had been undermanned and relatively weak were taken with surgical precision. Unsurprisingly, in units with extremely low morale or miserable circumstances, men were deserting in droves when they could. It soon became common practice between the officers to count the number of their men twice- once in the evening and again in the morning- and to consult unit ledgers for names.

As High Command descended into panicked arguing and bickering on the hows and whys, the men who were lower on the chain of command heard and experienced nothing but failure after failure as the Demacians began to dictate the pace of the war with lightning fast and disturbingly surgical assaults.

It would only get much worse.

Author's Note: I actually planned this to be a giant chapter, but then again I felt that people would become too confused. So I thought it was best to split it into two parts, and here is part one for your perusal. Long story short, as you already got the first half of a monster chapter, you get to have another update much faster.

As to the Demacians- my approach here was to emphasize the fact that the Demacians carried themselves according to the Measured Tread, and therefore they held themselves to certain rules when it came to war (such as offering the enemy the chance to surrender). Still, we see that even the Demacians aren't precisely angelic- they look down at the Noxians and consider them as nothing but beasts, and even though they claim to adhere to the concept of fairness and freedom of choice, it's hard to see one man fighting a divsion of soldiers as a fair fight.

We're introduced to Garen here, and by the timeline I'm going along he's only thirteen years old. There's still a lot of room for doubt, even if he had just graduated from the Royal Academy, and well- even the Might of Demacia was a kid.

To clarify: Fugazi means 'fucked up, got ambushed, zipped in (a body bag)'. It was also used during the Vietnam War to imply a situation that's broken and fucked up beyond repair.