Jarvan stared at the slowly opening doors, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier with each creak.
He didn't know how many powerful figures waited for him beyond them. He didn't know if he would walk out alive.
But now that he was here, he had to face the power of Noxus head-on.
"In the name of the Trifarix and the Empire—may my enemies fall, and may my blood serve Noxus!"
The sharp voice of a woman rang out the moment the doors opened.
A red-haired woman, twin daggers at her sides, strode past him without pause.
Her icy gaze brushed over him, and he felt frozen to the bone in that brief instant.
A chilling aura crept into his skin, wrapping around him like death itself.
He had no doubt she could kill him in a heartbeat.
"Who is she...? Is she also part of the Trifarix?"
Still shaken, Jarvan stepped into the great hall.
Before him stood a grand throne surrounded by banners, raised above the floor on a wide set of steps—clearly the centerpiece of the hall.
But no one sat upon it.
He guessed no one had for some time. Perhaps no one ever would again.
He recognized most of the banners around the throne.
Thanks to generations of war between Demacia and Noxus, Jarvan had learned the stories of Noxian emperors from a young age—often through the tales of those his ancestors fought.
The banners flapped lightly—symbols of the Noxian imperial line.
"Demacia has arrived?"
A calm, steady voice pulled his gaze to the chamber's center.
The three great stone seats stood—the symbol of Noxus's ruling council, the Trifarix.
Only one was occupied.
Swain.
"Prince Jarvan IV Lightshield of Demacia," the prince said, his tone formal, body held tall and straight.
Here, he stood for Demacia. He couldn't afford to falter.
"Jericho Swain, Grand General of Noxus. Vice President of the Trifarix Council."
Swain's voice was deep, composed.
He had watched Jarvan's approach. The resolve, discipline, and strength are all worthy of respect, even from Noxus.
Behind the three great seats sat others—silent, watchful.
A gruff warrior.
A woman whose beauty was matched only by the danger in her smile.
Another, with glowing blue eyes—clearly augmented, humming faintly with arcane power.
Jarvan observed them discreetly, and his heart tightened.
Even seated, he could sense their strength. He knew he wouldn't stand a chance against most of them.
Maybe one, if he was lucky.
And Garen? He doubted even his most loyal friend would fare better.
Swain remained seated, unbothered by Jarvan's caution. He spoke plainly:
"I had hoped your arrival would bring good news. But judging by your face, it seems Demacia isn't ready to surrender."
Jarvan straightened, his voice firm, his eyes hard:
"We were defeated—but we are not destroyed."
He heard the superiority in Swain's tone, but buried the anger rising in his chest.
He wanted revenge for the fallen, wanted to charge into this city with sword drawn, even if it meant dying in the attempt.
But he held it all back.
"You're clinging to remnants," Swain said with a thin smile.
"Two Aspects lost. What's left of Demacia? Magic?"
Jarvan flinched slightly. He didn't know why Swain had brought up magic, but the mention struck a nerve.
Still, he stood his ground.
"We have our elite soldiers. Our people are willing to fight to the last. And the magic-absorbing forest still protects us. You won't take us easily."
Swain's eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Yes, that's always been your way—better to die than bend."
His voice was quiet, but not unkind.
He knew the boy before him wasn't merely stubborn.
He was resolute. And even Swain, architect of war, found a flicker of respect rising in his chest.
In all of Demacia, few could carry themselves with the same blend of humility and pride that Jarvan did now.
"Yes... even if the Kingdom of Demacia is wiped from the map."
Jarvan hesitated for only a heartbeat before giving his vow, solemn and unwavering:
"Even if Noxus conquers us, we will leave you with nothing. Only scorched earth."
Swain's lips twitched slightly at the boldness of his words.
"And yet... here you are. The first member of the Demacian royal family to step into this hall in centuries. So tell me, prince—what is it you've come to say?"
Jarvan's expression turned grave.
"I'm here in the name of peace. Our nations have been at war for too long."
"A peace treaty?" Swain's tone was measured, almost curious.
He didn't mock the idea. In a one-sided war, Jarvan had risked his life to be here.
That kind of courage—even from an enemy—deserved respect.
"We propose a two-nation peace treaty with Noxus," Jarvan declared, standing tall despite the oppressive weight he felt in the room.
From the moment he'd entered, he had sensed the immense pressure emanating from Swain.
This man's presence alone rivaled—no, surpassed—his father's.
Every motion, every word struck at his nerves.
Taking a steadying breath, Jarvan continued:
"To prove Demacia's sincerity, we are willing to export petricite to Noxus, open full trade routes, and grant your merchant fleets access to Port via the inland river."
Swain raised an eyebrow, then added smoothly:
"Include one more point."
He spoke as if casually proposing a minor amendment.
"Noxus will offer political asylum to any within Demacia who are rejected by their people."
"Impossible!" Jarvan shot back, not even trying to hide his alarm.
"For generations, we've detained prisoners—mages and others. If we allow this, we risk losing everything to the very people we've kept contained."
"We've ignored that until now," Swain replied coolly.
"But from the moment this treaty is signed, this clause will be in effect. We will have the right to provide compulsory asylum."
Swain's gaze darkened, his voice sharp as steel:
"Don't test the Empire's patience, Jarvan Lightshield."
The sheer force of his presence nearly bent Jarvan in place.
For a moment, he felt true fear—visions of battlefield ruin and unstoppable Noxian might flashing in his mind.
But for the sake of Demacia, to buy even a sliver more time, he clenched his fists and gave a reluctant nod.
"Fine... but we can't promise judgment on everyone. You'll have to decide who qualifies."
Swain leaned back slightly, easing the crushing weight of his presence.
His voice returned to a calm murmur:
"That won't be necessary. When those people are hunted or imprisoned, our envoys will notify the Demacian Council directly. Who knows... the Lightshield family might be the first to accept our protection."
Jarvan's eyes darkened.
"Never. The Lightshields would never turn their backs on Demacia."
But even as he said it, doubt flickered behind his gaze.
He understood the veiled message.
Noxus knew what was happening in Demacia—all of it.
They knew the tides were shifting. That unrest brewed beneath the surface.
That the crown's grip was loosening.
Swain's words weren't just provocation. They were a warning.
Even the mighty Lightshield line might one day fall, abandoned by the very people they'd sworn to protect.
In Demacia, there was only one other noble house powerful enough to seize the reins: the Crownguard.
The thought of Garen brought Jarvan a brief moment of comfort.
If there was anyone left he could trust, it was him.
He pushed the unease deep down and steadied his breath.