AN:

The culmination of Davith's demise, the beginning of a second arc (and the connection to 'The Price of Freedom'[Not that I've written any of that yet] and the precursor to some Lundra citrus.

An hour later, Syndra rose up from the camp like a Dark, wingless angel, inspiring no small part of awe and fear in the watching soldiers, who were lined in formations and ready to march, hidden behind a line of trees and the mouth of the valley. Swooping through the currents of air, she took a moment to enjoy and reflect on the peacefulness. It was a harsh contrast to what would come soon, one that would make Syndra long for anything else, that would shake the island of Ionia from its slumber, that would bring foes to fight together and alliances to crumble like so much dust in the wind.

Bloody, glorious, life-ending, corpse choked death on a scale like no other until the Noxian invasion.

War.

She drifted from the clouds, cold wisps of vapour following her in her descent. Below was arrayed the forces of Davith, entirely unprepared and unaware of what awaited them. Syndra fancied herself a relatively humble person, who would not overuse the power of theatrics, would not hesitate to strike at a long-sought enemy even if she hadn't given a lengthy monologue. But that didn't stop her laughing darkly, her voice amplified to carry to the huddled masses below. Both armies shook in fear at the sound, though only one would truly understand what it meant to be on the receiving end of its propagator. A sweeping, clawed hand, a grand gesture, a surge of Dark power… And it was begun.

Davith had mostly given up on patrols and pickets. His generals had been found, one by one, throats cut or crushed, some emaciated like they'd aged decades in minutes. His men were scared, demoralised, and between the scuttling things in the darkness and desertion, were dropping like flies. He was sat in a poorly constructed throne, hewn rough wood and a coarse carpet flung over the seat, all stolen. It was perhaps the most uncomfortable thing he'd sat on in his entire life, but it made him tall and imposing and it gave him a good enough view over the camp. He tried to sit in it as little as possible, since it made him an easy target for assassins - not to mention that his arse ached after a few minutes of perching on the edge. He made an exception now; his kingdom was crumbling around him like it was built on sand. He supposed it was - he had no illusions that one day his tyranny would be put to an end - but he had never thought it would happen so soon or so suddenly.

It had taken the course of a day to be utterly fucked. With a dry laugh, sitting on this shitty throne, he realized all he needed was a crown and he'd be royally fucked. He'd run if the shadows wouldn't eat him alive, would fight if he didn't think he'd lose, would call once more on the dark powers he'd used to rise to this position if they hadn't abandoned him, attracted to some other Dark beacon. He played idly with a long, wicked knife, totally smooth and sharp enough to cut through cured leather. He spun it, threw it, splayed it between his hands. As a boy, he'd cut himself more than anyone else doing this, but now he'd perfect- ow, fuck.

Bright blood welled from a shallow cut on the side of his index finger. It stung like hell, but the greatest risk was having it swell with death and fall off. Channelling the last of his power, he drew the blood out of the wound in a whip, a long line connected to his vein, swelling. It always created a strange sensation - like his hand was a deflating balloon - but after a while it stopped, leaving the tendril to grow. The dark red lash curled and roiled in the air, then quivered and collapsed onto the floor. It splashed in a perfect circle, dots and marks and runes forming with exact accuracy. Arcane markings of blood, to draw, store, and shape power in an exact ritual. After a few moments of the blood lying in the open sun, glistening wetly, it started to glow. The area darkened, the sun unable to penetrate the Dark magic that coagulated around the thickening blood. Lying back against his throne, grateful for the shade - a nice side affect - his reverie was broken by the harsh and barely understandable voice of his major-domo, Taddro.

"Is that wise, Milord?" His accent was impenetrable, even though his understanding of Ionian was perfect. Coming from Shurima, a legendary land of deserts, sun, and trade, now fallen to the sand it rose from. The upheaval after the Emperor's death was total, and Taddro had fled from the chaos. Davith's lip curls in disgust; mostly at himself.

"I am sure it isn't, but there are no options left to me. I must procure aid from any source, or we are all doomed. The small fry have not answered my calls in some time… And to catch the biggest fish you need the biggest bait." Even as the words leave his mouth, the blood on the ground starts to bubble. It writhes, crawls, and finally starts to collect, drawn into the centre of some red whirlpool. Only Davith's most trusted men - of whom there aren't many left - stand close enough to witness, for only they understand the ease of power that blood brings. Those others nearby, hidden from sight by screens of wood and paper, hear sinister whispers at the edge of hearing, shivering for no discernible reason. Davith… Davith hears the screams of the damned and dying, the souls of those foolish enough to sign a gore-soaked pact with the beings that lay beneath the surface of the normal world, evil, strong, and hungry.

Who calls the Devourer? What foolish, arrogant man would dare to pull me forth from slumber? Davith can hear the voice echo, and then, he knows, inside, that whatever being may be watching is watching him. The whirlpool is sucking, greedy, now; it curls away into the ground as if it was a hole to the Underworld itself. it likely is, indeed, and a much easier entrance than the Shadow Isles. On the other side… Damnation.

And power.

Davith stands on his throne, towering over his advisors by several feet due to his natural stature and the wood beneath him. The knife is in his hand again, somehow, and poised over the wrist of his arm… He can see the red life pumping beneath, begging to be used.

"I call you, damned being, Dark force, unholy wretch. I, Emperor Davith, summon you forth that I might parley, and reach an accord, and you will listen to my demands!" The voice laughs mockingly, and all the advisors wince simultaneously as their souls recoil at the presence of the being.

A bold statement, fool. But I will listen...Choose your words wisely, lest they be your last… Davith flourishes with the knife, cutting a swift, precise mark into his flesh, the lines scoring against the bone inside his arm. He doesn't wince, gasp, or otherwise react, the pain dulled by a siren's call that tugs on his soul.

"You will deliver me unto riches and power, destroy the oh-so-noble Rikmar, and ensure that I will not die as long as Runeterra exists to serve me, and only me! I, Emperor Davith, do ask of you this boon, damned being, Dark force, unholy wretch, and offer unto you the only chip I have left… My eternal soul." With a final yell, he plunges the dagger into the middle of the mark carved onto his arm. Finally, he gasps; the knife continues onwards through his flesh and down, and he falls through the dead wood of his throne, leaving a tracer of shadow behind him. His body has become insubstantial, a smoky outline that escapes direct notice but leaves an afterimage, like a bad taste in one's mouth. The whirlpool starts to churn violently, and the men nearby mutter, then scream as tendrils of the thick red fluid lash out and grasp them, dragging inexorably. All but Taddro, who stands, impassive, the panicked death throes of Davith's generals and acolytes fading, to be replaced by a terrible, booming laughter, a roar of death and blood in a wave that fills his entire camp.

"What have you done to me!? This was not our pact!" The hungry mouth of the beast lifts from the floor and trailing behind the corpses of his men, strung together in a grotesque form that binds together the being's presence, anchoring it to this world. It forms a great hunched beast, with muscles of blood and thick clotted life forming skin.

You asked me for riches and power… They are yours, a pauper's riches, a shadow's power. You asked to live as long as Runeterra exists, and you will, as long as Light shines on this world. You asked for the destruction of Rikmar, and, trust me with this little… It would be my honour, my Highness! The voice echoes and then breaks into voracious, blood chilling screaming, and the rippling creature of blood sweeps away.

It gets a dozen metres before the laughter reaches it, followed quickly by the tidal wave of Darkness, all consuming.

Syndra's plan starts well. Davith's men are roused from tents and campfire by the chilling laughter, then swept up in her power, carried along like so many pins in a fairground. Only the men are picked up, the tents and loose items dissolving in the sheer, overwhelming corruption borne forth on the Darkness. The great form of blood ignores this entirely, as does the vaporous form of Davith, which unlike the being, goes unnoticed by Syndra. The red blotch on the terrain below is momentarily swamped, but stands still after it passes, grown by the men pressed into it and adding to its form. Davith's army is deposited like silt just after the narrow channel of the valley, the choke in an hourglass that ends in death, but with men and not sand. Rikmar's forces quickly march from the forest, spectres dressed in shining mail and plate. All at once, a great series of rocky spires erupt from the ground, entirely ignoring the spirit. The columns lock Davith's army from retreat, a solid wall of commitment and, ultimately, doom. Rikmar's men, they do not baulk as the creature bears down on them, closer and closer, following orders unto their end. Syndra sees this all, but is trying her best to keep the roiling force of Darkness suppressed, cutting its ties before it continues onto Rikmar's men, and is only just successful. The strain keeps her from responding to the Devourer before it starts to ravage the ranks of soldiers arrayed at the mouth of the valley. She starts to move, slowly, too slowly, the beast growing with every death and broken corpse, when a great, blinding, burning lance of purest Light arcs forth from the hill where Rikmar and his commanders stand. At first, she assumes it is Narrla, who has a passable mastery of all the elements and pillars of magic, but she quickly realizes the beam, which begins to carve globules of sustaining blood from the creature, is two sources pressed together. A throbbing aches in her heart, echoed pressure from…

Lux, who stands atop the hill, crumpling under the strain of such a reckless and destructive display of power.

Syndra knows that, though the Light will banish the being, Lux - and perhaps Narrla - will evaporate under the flow of magic, like a stone in a river bed will erode over centuries. She cannot help from here, not after what she'd just done, but that strand, that long spindle of chain that connects them, calls to her. Delving inside of her own mind, the star that illuminates the Dark sea beneath her wanes, falters, wavering like a flame in the wind. With a scream - a reverberating shout of pain and hope, love and fear - she streams raw, undiluted power into their connection. The sky splits above her, and iridescent ribbons of magic flow down into the star. The Dark ocean beneath starts to boil, rising into the air to burrow through this one chink in Lux's defences, but Syndra doubles down with sheer will, her screams rising from a tortured throat, and the roiling mass below calms, the streamers of power doubling and then tripling in size and speed.

Vaunt, Captain of the Ninth Rangers, stands on a shelf of rock that was carved by time into the side of the valley. His men - a few dozen, the rest picking off stragglers - unload volleys of blistering fire into the backs of Davith's forces. He would have ordered fire on the great beast that is slaughtering his brothers-in-arms but has enough understanding of the arcane to know that it would be futile. He picks out a man shouting orders below and is about to single him out to his second, a brilliant marksman, when a shadow passes over him. He looks up and sees a dainty form, swamped in purple Darkness, writhing like she's burning from the inside. Her mouth is open in a rictus of agony but the time for screams has passed. He recognizes her from the rumours, though she isn't nearly as demonic as his men would suggest around the campfire. As he watches, the lance of light assailing the beast suddenly explodes in power, and his Queen's form snaps taught, muscles rigid, and she finally screams as the monster breaks apart under the magic assaulting it. She drops a few metres, halts, falls, seizes, and plummets to the ground far, far below. For a moment, he stares, unsure if it is a trick of the sun that shines just behind her, but he swears she is… Glowing... With an inner light.

Immediately, he grabs his second and starts to scream orders. A half-dozen men rush out with a blanket strung between them, sliding down the hill with reckless abandon. Syndra lands in it, then hits the floor with a bone-crunching impact. Ignoring his second's panicked words, he follows his men down the scree and dirt that covers the valley's side. Sliding to a halt beside the crumpled form of his monarch, sending up a cloud of dust, he is just in time to see his eyes were not deceiving him. She is shining from within with a bright, pure Light, that makes his eyes hurt to see it. One of her arms is twisted at a sickening angle, the bone poking through near her elbow. His men are not rattled, having seen far more gruesome things through their scopes. Waving them away, he goes to sit her up, maybe bandage her arm, when she groans and rolls over. Her bone snaps back together like it was never injured, the blood bubbling in Light. When she stands, she floats up above the ground by a few feet, imperiously hovering. He falls to his knees unconsciously, as do his men.

"What are you called, that I may reward you and your men for saving me? It is a debt I am sorry I will likely never be able to repay." He dares not raise his head to her divine majesty, but his words are strong as always.

"I am Captain Vaunt, my Queen, and these are my Ninth Rangers. We… Only serve you, humble, for that is our duty to our Queen and Goddess." She grunts, and then he feels a pressure on his chest, pulling him. He and his men are yanked to their feet, their eyes lifted to gaze upon the deity shackled in flesh.

"I am no Goddess, forget that not. Come to Rikmar's tent after Davith has been defeated, and I will show you a proper thanks." He nods, unable to respond as she floats away once more, towards the raging battle. He scrambles up the slope, his second helping him over the lip of their position. When asked what happened, he replies with awe in his voice.

"Our God-Queen has blessed us, fallen from the sun, having taken its Light. She will drive away the evil that plagues this land, and we will help her! Fire! Kill the evil Davith, and destroy his army!"

For the soldiers below, who have no view of Syndra and who are primarily concerned with the raging melee with Davith's forces and the blood-being, see only the arcing beam of light smite the foul creature. They cheer the name Lux, for surely it is she, beloved ward of Rikmar and Mydaltt, that has destroyed the unholy outsider and saved them from certain doom! Their cheering crescendos into a rictus of triumph as the earthen wall trapping Davith's men disappears in a plume of steam; replaced by all-consuming magma. The opposing army fights like a cornered rat, trapped between the roiling lava and Rikmar's men, who have orders to accept surrender from any who put down their weapon, or indeed, have no weapon to begin with.

As such only half of the army - the half that willingly served the evil Emperor, who raped and pillaged happily in his name - were slaughtered to a man, whilst the farmers, wanderers, and mercenaries who had lives beyond banditry were spared, lest this year's harvest suffer, since Rikmar knew he couldn't let anything bad happen early in his new reign, or there would be unrest. When all was said and done, Rikmar ordered his men pulled back, dragging their dead comrades with them and leaving the bodies of Davith's men in the mud. Davith's body was found, slumped over his throne, dead from no wounds they could find. The scouts did not see the shadowed form peering from the floor, just the top of his face visible, the rest of his body slipping through the dirt as easily as air.

After a few hours to rest, throatcutters and scavengers were let loose. They killed those few who had not bled out and tore the camp apart for supplies that Syndra hadn't destroyed in her rampage; there wasn't much. It took almost no time for the rumours to circulate; Syndra had accidentally summoned the beast and Lux had been forced to destroy it, the monster had been Davith's soul bloated by death and sacrifice, and the one that held a kernel of truth; Syndra was the one to destroy the creature, the God-Queen, and that she would expand her kingdom to spread her benevolence as far as she could. There was one thing for certain, amongst it all, the celebrations and grief and planning.

She and Lux had some talking to do.

After the battle, Syndra avoided returning to the victorious army, and the command tent. Leaving her shadow behind to watch the tent - she would keep her word if Vaunt showed up - she could feel worry and happiness seeping from her bonds with Mordreth and Lux, but couldn't bring herself to greet them. Instead, she fled to the great tree she had slept under previously. It had grown even more; spiralling upwards beyond belief, towering like a giant several times over its surroundings. Standing under it provided total shade, such was the volume of its personal canopy, but the sunset provided a purple hue to the world around her. It sobered her that her own purple light held nothing to this natural beauty, an unnatural curse. She let the self-loathing wash over her for a time, not long enough.

Then, with the rustle of ethereal leaves, peering into the spirit world like a curious little girl, she saw the ninja again.

She had heard the tales of the balance keepers, the Kinkou, great and powerful warriors who mediated the forces of the spirit world and the human realm, magic and soul and flesh and blood. She didn't really believe them until now, looking upon this man before her. The purple light of the sunset was, in this world, entirely drowned beneath their auras. His was pure, clear, piercing, unbiased. Hers was… Writhing. He bows at the waist, sharp and slow, and she returns the favour. Gently coming down to the floor, she momentarily falls to one knee and dips her head, almost brushing the leaves littering the ground, and then ascends to her rightful place, free of gravity's pull.

The man regards her for a moment - eyes sharp, darting - and speaks, voice sounding like it is coming from underwater.

The balance must be maintained. You know not of the balance, but I can still ask you for assistance in my endeavours. I need your help to eliminate a threat to both worlds. The temple I showed you previously; there is a strange presence. It is powerful, but I do not recognise it. We will need your help to raze it to the ground.

Message delivered, he stands completely still, like a statue, and awaits a response. Syndra truly considers it; she relishes not only the opportunity to work beside a legend - though she would never admit it - but to find a challenge, a threat, not to mention another practitioner of Dark magic, to weight herself against. She drifts back down to the floor, lying gently with her back propped against the great trunk of the arboreal colossus, and sighs, waiting for a few moments before responding.

"I will help you, strange man, but only if you promise not to get in my way. Meet me here, tomorrow, we will complete this task, and leave on good terms."

The purple figure shows no indication of having heard her, so she slumps and rests her head, weary after a long day, still drained from the display of power she had exerted herself totally for. After an indeterminable time, her peaceful reverie is broken by his voice once again. It sounds almost sad, a little angry, and this shocks her; the Kinkou Order are supposed to be entirely neutral and expressionless, that they may carry out their duties without bias or prejudice.

We agree. Tomorrow, when the sun hides its gaze from the world, meet us here once again. May the balance prevail.

Syndra lets her sight slip back into the physical world in time to see two dark figures bound away, disturbing barely a branch or leaf in their flight. Sighing once again, she lifts to her feet and floats in the direction of Rikmar's camp. She wishes to see the world, to remind her that it is not all death, and Dark, so that she can remind herself she is not like them, the Shadow Order. She is... If not good, trying to be. And besides, there is an aching in her soul, an emptiness to be filled only by Light.

She has spent too long away from Lux.

On the way there, her shadow alerts her to the presence of Vaunt; she tells her twin to command those stopping him to let him through, a long time before she gets there; they are no less afraid of her shadow than her, which makes the part of her that longs for love twinge. When she does arrive some time later, the guards - slightly drunk, despite Rikmar's best attempts - startle when she lands outside the tent. Their spears twitch, but manage to avoid piercing their Queen. She steps through the canvas flaps, and on the other side is a startling scene. The commanders, Mordreth and Allia included, are seated around a large, round table, the map replaced by countless platters of food and great jugs of drink. Captain Vaunt sits beside Lady Allia, eyes wide, plate overfull and barely diminished by his efforts. The plate itself is a thick, fluffy bread, baked flat and circular. You tear off chunks and eat it with the meal as you go. Syndra is familiar with it, even if she was used to eating off of Western-style ceramic; not that she had to eat anymore. Conversation grinds to a morbid halt as she enters and slowly floats over to the one empty seat. It is between Lux - Syndra's heart stops for a moment as she notices the literally radiant woman - and Mordreth. She pulls out the chair and sits, hovering an inch above the wood. Everyone is staring or trying their best not to, and the silence is broken only as Bron gurgles and spits out a red paste, shattering the reverie.

"Milady, please, take my food. I have eaten my fill anyway." Mordreth slides - as much as one can slide a loaf of bread soaked in meat juices, which she has to admit looks severely tempting - his plate over, the food piled atop wobbling dangerously. She smiles, but uses her magic to push it back across, leaving a trail of something delicious smelling. Every moment that passes saps her willpower. She hasn't eaten food in a long time... Can she even remember the last meal?

"Thank you, my knight, but I do not eat. I am sustained by will alone." She used to think that all mages could survive without food, and whilst natural magical talent helps to sustain oneself for long periods of time without nourishment, Syndra is the only one who she knows of that can forgo it entirely. Lux, judging by the way she is happily devouring stacks of grilled delight, is quite at ease eating with or without the aid of magic. Syndra smiles, unable to stop herself, when she notices that there is still one man staring at her. Vaunt is looking at her with a rapturous expression, his hands clasped in front of him in a strange way, a half-eaten meal in front of him. Lux is, whilst not ignoring her, paying close attention to her meal. Syndra doesn't mind; she isn't much to look at.

"My Captain, what are you looking at?" Rikmar's voice reaches across and attracts her attention, and Vaunt's. He turns, startled, and attempts to bow, narrowly missing the teetering pile of food stacked in front of him. Lux giggles, and snags a choice piece of meat, moaning very slightly as she chews reverently. The sound makes a shiver cascade down Syndra's spine.

"I am admiring our God-Queen, my Lord. Thinking of our future together, the future of her kingdom, the future of the people. It… Overwhelms me sometimes. Her radiance inspires so much in me, and I wish only to do all I can." Rikmar nods, and Mordreth raises a glass that is apparently full of bubbling liquid. It doesn't appear to be boiling, so she assumes it must be some kind of magic. Everyone else around the table raises their various drinks, and she quickly realises she doesn't have one. Fashioning a thin, fluted goblet out of pure Dark essence, she raises it too. Vaunt stares at it, his mouth hanging open just a little. Mordreth and Lux turn to smile at her. She suppresses a blush. Her knight begins speaking.

"A toast. For our Queen and her continued health, her kingdom and its expansion, the people and our freedom!" The tent starts to echo with the sounds of glass clinking. Those nearby hit hers with their own. The note it produces is a piercing, sonorous ring. It hurts her ears a little. When they sit back down, Bron gurgles and whimpers a tune, and Allia stands up, excusing herself.

"Vaunt, please escort our Lady Allia to her tent, and join Pan in guarding her." The Captain stands, steel in his eyes. He salutes , then takes Allia away. A few more of Rikmar's higher ups take the opportunity to leave as well, leaving only his closest allies. There is a moment of silence in which the sound of cutlery has died down, leaving no competition for the only interesting thing in the room, Syndra. Mordreth finishes the last gulp of his drink and turns to her. His face is flushed and wearing an irrepressible smile, positioned like a man just as drunk had pinned it there.

"Milady, that was a truly impressive feat of strength! I have never heard of such a powerful mage, save perhaps the Ancients of the past! And if not for you, Narrla, we would have been consumed by that blood-beast! With Davith defeated, an amazing victory by all accounts, our plans have fruited, and thank the gods for it! Cheers!" He goes to take a drink from the glass, but realizes it is empty. Lux leans across Syndra to pass hers, which is almost full. He murmurs thanks as that becomes almost empty. Then, softly, Lux whispers, the first words she has spoken since Syndra's entrance.

"Syndra was the one who destroyed the demon." The hushed conversation that had struck up vanishes like mist in the noon sun, leaving bare the words that broke it. Narrla, furthest from Syndra, opens her mouth to speak but instead nods. Her hands are shaking, brow furrowed, eyes darting. She looks more nervous than Lem.

"And it was a demon, not just a normal spirit. An embodiment of the Shadow Isles, drawn forth." Lux's voice is steadier this time. Rikmar and Mydaltt, just a seat away, both fix Syndra with a serious look, not dulled by the wine. She cannot discern its intent.

"If all of these things are true, we owe a debt beyond payment. You have helped to destroy our strongest foe and saved the lives of many. Though you came to us in odd circumstances, you have proven your effectiveness, if not your trustworthiness. I am glad, for now with Davith dead, the majority of Ionia is safe. But we must know, my Queen, for we worry. What are your plans for the future?" Rikmar's voice is grave and unwavering, but soft. Subtly, Lux turns to glance at Syndra. She is interested as well. The monarch leans back, arms crossed, head tilted. All of these things cannot draw an answer from her mind, which is indecisive. After a few seconds, her answer is born; Lux stretches herself over the arm of her chair, across the space between them, and presses her lips to Syndra's cheek. A loud gasp bursts from those present and Mydaltt's face drains of colour. Rikmar smiles, his gaze fixed on Lux, a gleam in his eye.

"We will rule, and should threats arise, we will demolish them as we did Davith. Our kingdom will expand, and by our will, the Dark will know fear." Lux says this still staring at Syndra, who is having trouble breathing or thinking. But she knows one thing, and with no conscious thought, kisses the woman she loves. It is small and short but serves the purpose of stopping Syndra's heart. Inside, she can feel the magic coiling, ready to strike, and as she goes to bear down on it Lux smiles and the star inside of her heart glows blinding, the ocean beneath tamed in the face of Light's purity.

Everyone else is utterly stunned, yet Syndra finds that she doesn't care one wit. Before, this uncaring apathy was born of arrogance and superiority. But now, she knows that no matter what, nothing will stop her love. The two simply gaze at each other like a pair of teenagers, giddy, and then before anyone can react, Syndra grasps the two in the clutch of Darkness and whisks them away to her castle, where prying eyes are thankfully absent.