POV - Azra'il
Do you recognise that particular sensation, the intuition that something good is far too fragile to endure? That chilling prickle at the nape of the neck which whispers: 'make the most of it, for the universe is currently sharpening its blade'?
Quite so.
I really ought to have heeded it.
The streets were deserted in that peculiar manner reserved for the hours betwixt midnight and dawn, when the drunkards have slunk off and the bakers have yet to stir. The settlement slumbered beneath a moonless sky, and the two sisters trod side by side upon the stone paving as though no world existed beyond their own orbit.
Kayle had retracted her wings into that stiff, characteristic posture, yet something within her shoulders appeared altered. Lighter. Akin to armour that had been shed and refitted, only to no longer sit quite right, for the frame beneath had remembered what it was to simply breathe.
Neither spoke. Yet the silence was transformed; it was no longer an abyss of distance, but of comfort. That rarest sort, existing between souls who have just shared something delicate and dread to shatter it should they dare to utter a word.
I hovered behind them. Invisible. Guarding.
[You are actively inviting disaster by uttering such things.]
[The last occasion you indulged in optimism, we were in Noxus and you purchased "exceedingly rare medicinal roots" from grinning smugglers.]
[They were spider eggs.]
[And they hatched within your kitchen.]
[And they swarmed through three city blocks.]
[There were fires.]
[You and Morgana were nearly banished from the street.]
The sound of hooves shattered the night.
Not a horse. Many. Galloping with the uncontrolled urgency of those who remain indifferent to the cacophony, for the noise is the least of their afflictions. The sound originated from one of the city gates, swelling rapidly, echoing through the lanes like a war drum no soul had requested.
<—before the universe decides to ruin everything. Many thanks, universe. Punctual as ever.>
[I warned you.]
[I am maintaining an exact count for the day you finally permit me to commission the stone. I'll just say that we're at a much higher number.]
Kayle halted first. Her entire frame shifted in a heartbeat; the levity of the tower evaporated as though it had never been, superseded by the rigid stance of the Protector. Wings flared by reflex. A hand moved to her hip.
I have witnessed this transition heretofore. In generals. In warriors. In souls so extensively trained to respond to peril that the peril itself becomes more comfortable than the peace. It is a mechanism both impressive and profoundly sorrowful. Rather like a hound conditioned to slumber with one eye open, efficient, to be sure, yet a devastating commentary upon the conditions of its existence.
Morgana halted a half-second later. More composed. More restrained. Yet her eyes were already sweeping the darkness.
[Six horses, heading north-west. Velocity incompatible with routine patrol. Armour severely damaged. One, potentially two, sustaining critical injuries. Blood scent upon the breeze at two hundred metres.]
[I am a multidimensional intelligence equipped with quantum sensors. You are capable of discerning the difference betwixt a superior tea and a wretched one at thirty paces.]
[Name a single one.]
[That was fiscal oppression, not tea.]
Six horses rounded the corner of the high street. Six soldiers, or the miserable remnants thereof. Armour dented, faces smothered in grime and perspiration and something darker. The horses were lathered, pushed beyond all reason by riders who had been denied the option of a pause.
The man leading the troupe sighted Kayle and all but tumbled from his saddle in his desperate haste to draw rein.
"Protector!" His voice belonged to one who had sprinted the length of the night fuelled by pure terror. The sort of voice I had encountered in soldiers across dozens of armies, across dozens of worlds, the voice of one who has witnessed that which the mind rejects, and desperately requires a stronger soul to insist all shall be well. "Protector, heavens be thanked—"
"Report."
Kayle truncated him.
[In fairness, her form would likely be meticulously organised.]
The soldier dismounted. His legs gave way, and he slumped against his horse. Only then did I discern the injury, a jagged gash along his left flank, amateurishly bound with a piece of cloak sodden with red.
[Deep laceration, possibly compromising floating ribs. The dressing is primitive. Unless he receives treatment within the next two hours, he shall succumb to profound infection with a high probability of expiration.]
"The scouts..." He swallowed hard, struggling to maintain consciousness. "The troupe we despatched to survey the southern frontier. Fifteen men. Only we six have returned."
Fifteen men.
Nine slaughtered, and the six that remained were bleeding out before two demigods at three in the morning, with the look of those who had discovered that Hell is not merely real, but possesses a sense of humour and is currently accepting applications.
Morgana drew near. She placed a hand upon his shoulder.
I have witnessed this gesture heretofore. Within battlefield tents, in the alleyways of besieged cities, in huts secreted away within the deep forests. And it never fails to soothe. The hand descends, and something within the other person simply... yields. As though granted permission to cease the charade that all is well.
"What occurred?" Her voice was steady. Lacking Kayle's cutting authority. Possessing instead that quality which compels others to unburden themselves rather than feeling obligated to.
"We discovered the villages to the south. Three of them. Destroyed. Not looted, destroyed. Houses torn from their foundations. Trees cloven in two."
He hesitated. The soldier turned pallid.
"And the bodies were... scattered. Not as though they had merely been slain. As though they had been dismantled."
[Azra'il.]
[The description is consistent with—]
"When we encountered the... thing..." The hand gripping the reins trembled so violently the leather groaned. "It was gargantuan. The size of a dwelling. Perhaps larger. A creature fashioned from dark armour and pulsing crimson flesh. Horns. Wings. Unlike yours." He glanced toward Kayle's wings. "Wings of flesh and darkness. Tattered. And a blade the height of a man, with a core glowing red as embers. It stated it called itself Aatrox."
[Darkin.]
[Corrupted Shuriman Ascended. Raised by the Sun Disc, imprisoned within their own armament by the Aspects of Targon. What he describes is no mere physique; it is a blade that has fashioned a physique around itself, utilising the blood and sinew of its hosts.]
[Evidently, "forever" has an expiry date.]
"The creature, Aatrox, stood in the centre of the fourth village," the soldier continued. "He was... merely playing. He would seize soldiers and, one of our warriors attempted to stand against him. He struck the thing's arm. The wound sealed shut before our very eyes. And it laughed and remarked: 'Ah, the ant hath bitten. How adorable. Pray, bite again.'"
I have heard a surfeit of horrifying accounts in my numerous lifetimes. And, let us be frank, I am hardly a paragon of virtue; I have felt my blood ignite and a smirk surface upon my own face when witnessing a foe fall. There is nothing inherently terrifying to me in a creature that finds mirth in slaughter. I comprehend the thrill of the hunt; I comprehend the entertainment of a massacre expertly executed against those deserving the worst. That which disquiets me is not the thing's sadism, it is the lack of discrimination.
"He approaches," the soldier looked to Kayle as one might pin their final hope upon a singular destination. "Razing every hamlet upon his path. Civilians flee, yet the soldiers who remain to shield their escape... they do not endure."
Kayle and Morgana exchanged a look.
Two seconds. Perchance three. Yet I witnessed the entire conversation occur without a single utterance. I beheld the tower being stored away in a cabinet. I beheld the wings, the sandwiches, and the 'I shall endeavour' being padlocked away. For what arrived now possessed no space for such trifles.
"Distance?"
"Five, six hours at a gallop when I departed. Yet he does not pause. He feels no—"
"Escort your men to the healer." Kayle turned to Morgana. "The southern gate. As swiftly as is possible."
And she vanished. Sans explanation. Wings unfurling to achieve velocity.
[Kayle expresses solicitude through operational efficiency. She directed them to the healer. For her, this constitutes affection.]
[You are. Both of you. Only, you at least possess the humour for it.]
Morgana lingered an instant longer. Magic surged, purple, subtle, closing the gash upon the soldier's flank sufficiently to stem the haemorrhage. Where Kayle directed them to the healer, Morgana was the healer. Where one issued the mandate, the other enacted the gesture. The mechanism functioned, in a distorted fashion unacknowledged by either.
"Betake yourself to the healer for proper treatment."
"Redeemer... what is that?"
She gazed toward the south. Toward the obscured horizon.
"That which I prayed was naught but history."
And she unfurled her wings and ascended.
She carved a path through the nocturnal sky above the rooftops like a dark arrow, her purple feathers nearly indistinguishable against the gloom. Within seconds, she was hovering above her father's home, descending into the rear courtyard with an impact that prompted the neighbour's poultry to suffer an existential collapse.
The door unlatched without a sound; she traversed the corridor amidst the gloom. She entered the rear chamber, and there sat a cavernous trunk.
The hinges shrieked.
"Morgana?"
Kilam's voice, gravelly with slumber. The voice of a man who never genuinely slumbered when his daughters remained beyond the threshold.
"Return to your slumbers, Father."
Shuffling footsteps. A taper quivering in the doorway. Kilam appeared. His gaze fixed immediately upon the unlatched trunk. Upon the armour Morgana was already retrieving therefrom.
"You are unlatching the war-trunk at three in the morning and desire for me to slumber?"
His features underwent a transformation.
I have witnessed numerous features undergo transformations in numerous lifetimes. I have witnessed monarchs receiving intelligence of invasion. I have witnessed generals hearing of lost battles. Yet the transformation upon the features of a father who perceives his daughters are marching to war transcends all others. It is quieter. Far deeper. Utterly permanent.
"Battle armour." It was no inquiry. "What is transpiring?"
"Something approaches from the south. Razing hamlets."
"What manner of 'something'?"
Morgana hesitated. A mere instant, yet Kilam was the father of two demigods, and such fathers interpret hesitation as others interpret literature.
"What manner of 'something', Morgana?"
"According to the scouts' report... I fear it is a Darkin."
The silence endured for five seconds.
Five seconds wherein I observed Kilam, this mortal man, plagued by arthritis, who prepared sandwiches and enquired if his daughters had supped, assimilate a word belonging to ancient scrolls and nursery rhymes regarding the conclusion of existence.
He leaned against the doorframe. His knuckles turned white.
[I am present.]
[I am aware.]
"Darkin." He repeated it languidly. "Corrupted Ascended. Creatures that waged war against the Void." His eyes encountered his daughter's. "Creatures of your mother's calibre."
"Father—"
"You and Kayle. The two of you together." His voice trembled. "You have scarce required to wage war as one. Each peril that emerged over the previous fifteen years, one of you was sufficient. Perchance not even necessitating a sword." He stepped into the chamber. "If one necessitates both... and armed with Mihira's own blades..."
He did not finish. He had no requirement to do so.
It is something that may destroy you both.
Morgana ceased donning the armour. She gazed upon her father. Upon this mortal man who had traversed an ocean, raised two daughters capable of shifting mountains, prepared sandwiches with wrinkled hands for one who no longer visited, and who now stood in the chamber doorway at three in the morning with a quivering taper and the world crumbling behind his eyes.
"Father." She drew near. She cupped his face with both hands, the hands that healed, the hands that had yet to don the gauntlets of war. "Mother fought alone. We are two."
"Your mother abandoned us to confront such creatures, and we heard naught from her thereafter."
The words descended between them like a stone within a stagnant pool.
"I am aware." Morgana's voice possessed a firmness. Lacking false assurances. Lacking a 'all shall be well' which both knew to be a falsehood. "Yet I possess that which Mother did not."
"And what is that?"
"Someone waging war at my side. Kayle upon my flank."
Kilam studied her for a protracted period. Wet eyes. Tight jaw. Hands clutching the taper with the fortitude of one clinging to the solitary light available.
"And who covers her flank?"
"I."
Another silence. Heavier.
Kilam nodded. Slowly. Bearing the gravity of a man who comprehends that he cannot thwart that which approaches, and the solitary authority remaining to him is trust.
"You... inform her..." His voice faltered. He cleared his throat. He endeavoured once more. "Inform Kayle that her father demands she return to her hearth. Inform her I have yet to conclude my pestering of her. Inform her I possess additional sandwiches in wait."
Morgana's eyes gleamed.
"I shall."
"And you shall return, also. The both of you. Intact." The mortal hand clasped the immortal one. Ten digits enfolding fingers that would never age. "Grant me your oath."
Morgana parted her lips. Then closed them.
"I shall endeavour to ensure we both return."
Kilam closed his eyes. A solitary tear descended his weathered cheek, glinting beneath the candlelight.
"That shall have to be sufficient."
He withdrew his hand. Straightened his shoulders. For though he possessed sixty years and a heart fractured by terror, he remained a father. And fathers do not crumble before their progeny.
"Proceed. Clothe yourself. I shall prepare tea."
"Father, I possess no—"
"The tea is intended for me. I shall remain awake until your return." He ambled toward the doorway. Paused. Without looking backward. "Shield your sister."
And he departed.
Morgana stood for a handful of seconds. Her countenance, which permitted no fissures to be perceived by another, trembled. Then, she steadied herself. And she donned the remainder of the armour.
[I am present.]
[That is the price of existence near those who possess much to lose.]
The armour was retrieved from the trunk piece by piece. Dark, reinforced leather first, contoured to her frame. Plates of chased metal, profound purple with veins of gold coursing across the surface like rivulets of ancient light. Gauntlets of darkened silver. Combat boots.
And the helm.
Polished silver, unobstructed at the fore. Disparate from Kayle's enclosed helm, Morgana's disclosed her countenance. Her eyes. Her expression. As though she declined to conceal her identity even whilst arming herself to slay.
Finally, the blade.
The moiety of Mihira's sword. Darker than Kayle's. Yet more vibrant; I discerned the power slumbering within the metal. The fractured heritage of a mother who apportioned the weapon betwixt two daughters who would apportion the world.
Morgana gripped it, and her hand discovered the hilt as though it had never departed her grasp.
She departed via the rear threshold. Unfurled her wings. And halted.
Beyond the kitchen lattice, the candlelight. And the silhouette of Kilam seated at the table. Partaking of his tea. Gazing toward the south.
Already waiting.
Morgana averted her gaze and ascended.
The streets were stirring. Not toward the dawn, toward the terror. News travelled swiftly. Soldiers gathering into formation. Steeds being saddled. Torches ignited atop the watchtowers.
[Possessing a scheme is optional. Presenting the semblance of possessing a scheme is what maintains public order.]
[Noxus lacks lectures. It possesses "motivational sessions accompanied by blades".]
And amidst that entirety, Morgana descended from the heavens and struck out toward the southern gate.
The folk paused.
For the woman who traversed amongst them was not the one they recognised. Not the healer with the gentle hands. Not the councillor who adjudicated disputes. Not the woman the children dubbed 'Lady of the Wings'.
The purple and gold armour imbibed the torchlight like solidified night. Her wings were fully unfurled, every dark feather vibrating with an energy that rendered the air heavier. The helm framed a countenance that demanded no pardon for its existence. And in her right hand, a blade which scarce another soul within that city had witnessed.
She was the Veiled Redeemer. The incarnation which predated the healer and which should exist hereafter, when compassion encountered its limitations and naught remained save steel.
I observed the folk draw back. Not out of terror. Out of reverence. Out of the instinctive comprehension that they were beholding that which customarily remains concealed.
Across hundreds of lifetimes, I have beheld numerous souls arming themselves for warfare. Warriors, generals, monarchs, cosmic entities. Each adhered to their peculiar custom: some fueled by fury, some by terror, some by a sickening merriment. Upon one occasion within Alfheim, I observed a berserker arm himself whilst chanting nursery verses. Upon another, within Lordran, I observed a knight polish his armament for three hours prior to a skirmish which endured for four minutes. And in a life I elect not to recollect, I armed myself whilst laughing, which, in retrospect, served as a signal that I required therapy with extreme urgency.
Morgana armed herself for warfare precisely as she inhaled.
With the composed acceptance of one who comprehends the gravity of what approaches and elected to bear it regardless.
Kayle stood within the gateway.
In full armament; silver and polished azure, golden accents gleaming beneath the torches. Wings, alabaster and gold, unfurled, every feather of light crackling. Her silver hair adrift beneath her helm. The moiety of Mihira's sword held within her grasp, the blade aflame.
She was precisely that which she appeared: the countenance of justice in feminine form.
Upon Morgana's arrival, Kayle beheld her.
And I beheld it, for I lacked any alternative but to witness. Kayle's gaze travelled from her sister's summit to her base. The armour. The wings. The helm. The sword. And something traversed her features that was no tactical appraisal. It endured less than a second. Yet I recognised it. I recognised it from too many lifetimes.
She averted her gaze.
"You possess the sword."
"I possess it."
"It has been ages."
"The hand retains the memory."
<'Father commands I inform you he shall prepare additional sandwiches for you.'>
I could nigh conjure Morgana uttering these words. Nigh. Yet certain things remain for the aftermath. Should an aftermath occur.
"Keep to my left flank. Permit no severance."
Morgana adjusted her station beside her sister; natural, automatic. Their frames possessed knowledge of where to stand without instruction.
The wings unfurled in synchronicity. Alabaster and shadow. Gold and purple. Flame and night. The breeze struck the feathers and produced two disparate sonnets: the crackle of celestial fire and the profound murmur of Morgana's wings.
And they took flight.
The dawn discovered them upon their path.
A perverted dawn. Crimson. Lacking the temperate crimson of a nascent sun, a sickly crimson, as though the horizon itself were haemorrhaging. Vapour ascended from numerous destinations toward the south.
[Seven. Distributed in an arc, converging toward the north-east.]
[Toward the city.]
Below, the initial hamlet.
Or that which remained thereof.
I have witnessed destruction across numerous lifetimes. I have witnessed combusted cities, crumbled empires, entire civilisations reduced to dust and legend. Yet destruction possesses archetypes. There exists the destruction of warfare, functional, strategic, goal-oriented. There exists the destruction of fury, chaotic, explosive, exhaustive. There exists the destruction of indifference, cold, mechanical, efficient.
This was neither of these.
This was amusement.
The remains were arrayed with a cruelty possessing composition. Arranged. Staged. A soldier impaled upon his own pike like a grotesque banner. Two hurled against walls with such violence that their silhouettes remained imprinted upon the stonework, human outlines etched into masonry like macabre art.
[The arrangement indicates intellect. Aesthetic intent. This is no frenzy; this is a performance.]
[Perchance he is the audience. Perchance he is fashioning them for whosoever shall arrive thereafter.]
[Or for them.]
Kayle and Morgana descended in silence. Morgana touched the earth initially, graceful, nigh soundless. She surveyed her surroundings, cataloguing horrors without reacting to a solitary one. Kayle touched the earth with greater vigour. Wings semi-unfurled. Vigilant.
"Recent," Morgana remarked, touching a partition. "A matter of hours."
"He remains nigh."
A resonance. Distant. Yet unmistakable.
Screams. Not of a solitary soul, yet of a multitude. The collective sonnet of human desperation. Nigh two kilometres.
And beneath the screams, an additional thing. A profound resonance. Something betwixt laughter and thunder which compelled the air to vibrate in a fashion not native to this world.
I have listened to numerous sounds across numerous lifetimes. Sounds that slay. Sounds that mend. Sounds that signify the conclusion of all you acknowledge.
That sound was that of something partaking of amusement.
They flew toward the resonance.
The hamlet was engulfed in flame. Perverted flame, far too crimson, far too torrid, possessed of a voracity that felt unnatural.
At the centre, soldiers were perishing.
A dozen of them fashioned a line of shields betwixt the conflagrating dwellings and civilians in flight. Matrons with infants cradled to their breasts. The elderly being hauled by the youth. The organised desperation of an evacuation aware that each second was purchased with blood.
And standing before the line...
A Darkin.
The initial thing was not the magnitude. It was the presence. A compression within the marrow, within the soul, as though gravity itself had doubled its intensity around that thing. As though the space it occupied possessed greater reality than the remainder, and all else dwelled within a plane of slightly diminished solidity.
I have existed within the proximity of cosmic entities. I have felt the gravity of gods and demons and things existing betwixt the twain. Aatrox's presence was no grander than those. It was far more acrid. Far more ponderous. It harboured millennia of hatred concentrated within a singular point of space.
Then, the magnitude.
Colossal. Nigh four metres of a mass that defied anatomy. The frame was an aberration of flesh and metal fused without boundaries; dark armour, nigh sable, which appeared to have sprouted upon the dermis rather than having been donned. Organic plates sheathed the torso, etched with patterns that pulsed crimson-ember like veins of magma within obsidian. Betwixt the plates, exposed flesh, raw, crimson, living, pulsating with a respiration that was not entirely respiration.
Horns curled from the cranium like crowns of corrupted bone, framing a countenance which was less countenance and more a mask of fury fashioned from sinew. Eyes devoid of pupil, devoid of iris, embers burning within profound sockets.
And the wings. The wings were a profanation. Where Kayle's were light and Morgana's were night, Aatrox's were a laceration left agape. Tattered membranes of dark flesh and crimson energy, extended like standards of warfare. Wings that did not attain flight, that devoured the heavens.
Within his right hand, the sword. A blade the height of a man, perchance larger. Twisted dark metal encircling a core incandescent as the heart of a dying star. The Darkin blade. The confinement. The malediction. The armament, and the soul, and the hunger, all fused into a thing that pulsed.
[It is far more dire than it appears. The Shuriman texts describe the Darkin as among the greatest menaces the continent ever confronted. It necessitated the Aspects of Targon alongside other uncorrupted Ascended to imprison them. Yet even then, they proved incapable of obliteration.]
[Not obliteration.]
[They carry Mihira's heritage. They do not possess the complete potency.]
[Essentially.]
Aatrox was partaking of amusement.
A soldier lunged with a pike. The tip struck the pauldron; it ricocheted. Scarce a graze.
Aatrox gazed downward with the expression of a man observing an ant upon his footwear.
"Ah." The voice was impossible. Far too profound for a throat. Far too resonant for the open expanse. It emanated from within the armour and within the terrain and within the air simultaneously. "An additional champion."
His hand closed around the soldier. He elevated him as one might elevate fruit. The man screamed, flailing, his armour collapsing beneath the compression.
"Do you comprehend what I admire within mortals?" He elevated the soldier to eye level. Academic curiosity. "Obstinacy. You acknowledge your own mortality. You have acknowledged it since the hour of your birth. Yet still you sprint toward me wielding pitiable pikes and puffed-out chests." The cranium inclined. "It is pathetic. Yet aesthetic, after its fashion."
He compressed.
I shall not detail the resonance.
He cast the remains against the line of shields. Two soldiers collapsed. The remainder rectified the breach, disciplined, terrified, yet steadfast.
Across all my lifetimes, that which left the greatest impression upon me regarding humanity was never the potency. It was never the monarchs, the magi, the conquerors. It was these. The anonymous soldiers who comprehend they are to perish and remain steadfast regardless. Who fashion a line of shields against that which they cannot thwart because civilians in flight require an additional two minutes.
Two minutes. That was the currency they purchased. Two dozen civilians in flight for the price of a dozen lives.
"Two minutes," Aatrox reiterated, and there resided near-tenderness within the voice. "I might grant two. I might grant ten. The inquiry is: what quantity of your number shall I consume ere I become languid?"
The blade descended.
The impact was no strike; it was a geological catastrophe. The earth shattered within five metres. Soldiers were cast asunder. One endeavoured to thwart it with his shield; the Darkin blade cleaved shield, armour, arm, and man in a solitary continuous movement encountering zero resistance.
And wheresoever the blood struck the blade, I observed it.
The blade drank.
The metal imbibed the crimson as earth imbibes precipitation. And a laceration Aatrox had sustained earlier vanished with greater velocity. The sinew reconstituting. The crimson pulsing more intensely.
[Haemomancy. Blood sorcery. The Darkin utilise the vital matter of those they slay to regenerate and amplify their potency.]
[The greater the slaughter, the greater his potency.]
"RETREAT!" The commander, boasting superior scars than dermis, gazed rearward. The civilians had successfully retreated. "EVERY INDIVIDUAL—"
Aatrox manifested before him. He did not tread; he manifested. A mass of that magnitude ought not attain such velocity, yet logic evidently possessed no authority over him.
"Nay." Near-gentle. "You remain."
The hand descended upon the commander.
And halted.
A blade of celestial fire embedded itself within Aatrox's forearm with a resonance that was half-steel, half-thunderbolt. The impact was so brutal that the golden effulgence detonated against the dark sinew, and for the initial occasion, I witnessed the God-Slayer retreat a ponderous step, his limb fuming beneath the divine metal.
Whilst the sword vibrated yet within Aatrox's bone, the heavens sundered.
Kayle descended as a comet. Bereft of her weapon, she appeared far more perilous; a projectile of pure judgement. Her silver tresses lashed the breeze, and her wings battered with the violence of a hurricane. During the millisecond wherein her feet kissed the earth, shattering the terrain within a flawless circumference and blinding the soldiers, she extended her right hand.
As though responding to the command of its proprietor, the blade of Mihira tore free from Aatrox's arm in a blinding radiance, hurtling toward Kayle's palm the precise moment she ascended.
Armed now, and swathed in furious conflagrations, she stationed herself as a rampart betwixt Aatrox and the commander.
And at her side, upon the left flank, precisely where destiny mandated, Morgana descended. Her contact with the earth was noiseless, a sombre contrast to her sister's devastation. Her purple and ebony wings unfurled like a shroud of night, ushering in a profound shadow which tranquillised the pandemonium. Within her right hand, she wielded the moiety of the darkened blade, prepared for whatsoever might transpire.
Light and shadow. Gold and purple. Flame and night.
I beheld them, and I reflected: it is aesthetic and it is insufficient. A pair of asters opposed to a solitary black hole. Two halves opposed to an integer. And the integer was feeding.
Aatrox beheld them.
And smiled.
Not the smile of one who encounters peril. The smile of one who encounters a rarity for the initial occasion in a millennium.
"Oh." The voice harboured aeons of isolation and starvation. "Now this is disparate."
He straightened. He balanced the blade upon his shoulder with a casualness that lacked correspondence to the magnitude of the weapon. His eyes roved from Kayle to Morgana and back.
"Wings." He savoured the syllable. "Authentic wings. Wings of light. Wings of shadow." His eyes narrowed. "Targon blood. The blood of the heavens which betrayed me."
He laughed. The partitions which yet remained erect quivered.
"Daughters of Mihira." It was no inquiry; it was recognition spat forth with contempt. "I have known your mother. I have known the arrogance she retains high above, whilst observing the Sun consume the mortals endeavouring to shoulder the gravity of gods."
Aatrox's blade rotated with unnatural levity for a blade of such magnitude, slicing the air with a sinister hiss.
"Declare to me, fledgling heirs to justice, have you ventured hither to slay me, or have you ventured hither to provide me a justification to maintain my existence?"
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Author's Note
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Alright.
We need to talk about this chapter. Because, honestly, The End of the Heavens was not written to promote emotional stability, inner peace, or healthy blood pressure levels.
This is the moment the arc kicks the door down, walks in carrying a sword the size of your monthly rent, and announces:
"the part where you get to breathe peacefully is officially over."
And yes… Aatrox has arrived.
Now, let me confess something very important:
I have never played Aatrox.
Played against Aatrox? Unfortunately, yes.
And by a completely unrelated and definitely not suspicious coincidence, I was writing this arc shortly after losing a game where the enemy Aatrox was something very balanced and totally fair like 17/3.
So basically, a portion of this chapter was fueled by:
rage, fear, frustration, and a mild desire to report a champion to the authorities.
That being said…
For those of you who follow League of Legends lore, this arc is heavily inspired by the "Still Here" cinematic. I took the atmosphere, the weight, that overwhelming sense of dread the video carries… and expanded it into my own interpretation of what could have been happening there. So it's not meant to be a direct retelling, but rather my version of that beautifully catastrophic scenario.
And if you're not that familiar with LoL or its lore:
I highly recommend checking out the cinematic on YouTube.
Now I need to ask something very specific:
👉 Are there any Aatrox players here?
Or people who really like him, follow his lore, or just understand his whole… apocalyptic king energy?
Because I genuinely want to know:
What did you think about the way I wrote him?
His presence?
His voice?
That mix of monstrous, divine, and "I will destroy everything and humiliate you all"?
Did he feel like Aatrox?
Did he feel threatening enough? Grand enough?
Because let's be honest, if there's one character who deserves to act like he's the main performer in the apocalypse, it's him.
Anyway… this chapter was my little gift to:
readers who enjoy well-crafted suffering,
fans of absurd, high-stakes confrontations,
people who have emotionally adopted chaos as a lifestyle, and maybe the Aatrox mains who appreciate seeing their champion treated like the terrifying calamity he truly is.
So tell me everything.
Especially those of you who know the character better than I do.
Because as someone who has already suffered at the hands of Aatrox on Summoner's Rift, I can confidently say:
writing him was way more fun than fighting him.