Once every ten years, the rival nations of Noxus and Demacia met not on the open field, but within walls built for sport and spectacle.
The Conquest Games were older than most anyone alive, a tradition born in the aftermath of a war neither side could afford to finish. Seven days of sanctioned battle, played out within a fortress that belonged to neither flag, its stone halls echoing with the clash of dulled steel and the roar of crowds of civilians gathered to cheer on either side.
The rules were simple enough for a squire to recite: no killing, no maiming, no escape. Only blunted training arms permitted. Every defeated foe was a prize to be kept until the Games ended, a "captive," to be treated as well as honor allowed. Prisoners were fed and clothed, given quarters under the care—or whims—of their captor. "Hospitality" was the word used in polite company. "Spoils" was the one muttered over tankards. On the seventh day, the Games ended with a final grand melee. Territory and captives were tallied, a victor declared, and all returned to their own camps. At least in theory.
The unspoken aim was simpler:
Learn the enemy's measure to get under their skin… and stay there.
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The courtyard rang with clashes of steel on steel. Sunlight flashed off polished armor and the gilded edges of raising shields.
As a yordle, Poppy had seen many a Conquest Game come and go. This year would mark her first time volunteering to join the fray, and so far, she'd been putting in a good performance. For the current event, her squad had been holding a choke point for five minutes—a lifetime in a match like this—but the Noxians were pressing harder now, forcing them back a step at a time.
And then he appeared.
He broke through the line like a siege ram, his great axe sweeping aside her comrade's shields as though they were nothing. The man was a wall in motion, every swing of his weapon being used to herd the Demacian soldiers precisely where he wanted them.
Poppy braced, hammer at the ready.
"I'm not backing down!"
His eyes flicked down to her, the grin that touched his mouth infuriatingly calm.
They clashed. Trading blows in the narrow passage, her hammer and buckler met his axe with bone-rattling force. He was stronger, whereas she was more nimble: darting in low, forcing him to constantly adjust his approach.
Their fight lasted minutes. For a heartbeat, she thought she could turn the tide, until a sudden feint sent her off-balance, and he landed a solid strike into her chest.
She gasped from what felt like the air rushing out of her lungs all at once. She fell to one knee. But before she could rise again, the flat of his axe head intervened and pressed lightly—almost mockingly —against her collar.
"Yield," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear it.
Pride burned hot in her chest. But the match was officially over. Around them, her squad was already throwing down their arms, the tide of Noxian red closing in.
She met his eyes. "Fine. You win this round."
His grin widened a fraction.
"No, hammerbearer. What I have won is *you*."
That night was one of celebration and mourning.
Food was plenty. The long tables in the dining hall were set with all manner of delicacies: whole game birds lacquered in spiced honey, their crisp skin gleaming in the torchlight; trencher boards heavy with thick-sliced roast beef, still blushing in the center; great bowls of buttered root vegetables glistening under dustings of coarse salt; dark loaves of bread split open to steam, spread with soft, tangy cheese; figs and pomegranate halves bleeding juice over polished silver platters. It was abundance without restraint. The kind of spread meant to smother a guest's will beneath the weight of its generosity.
The smell alone made Poppy's stomach clench—part hunger, part unease.
She hadn't taken a single bite.
The Noxians on their side, meanwhile, feasted with abandon. Grease slicking their fingers and beards, they tore through the meat with their teeth and tossed the bones indiscriminately onto the floor to be fetched by the unabating swarms of scurrying servant children. Their platters, in honor of their day's victory, were specially laden in servings of roasted trout glazed with citrus, neat little pies of venison and mushroom, sugarcoated almonds piled in pretty porcelain bowls for dessert.
While they rollicked still, the Demacians sat straight-backed and humorless. They muttered sourly about their degrading defeat. Even the occasional spit of laughter, when it arose, came out hushed and polite, as if they feared the sound might chip the marble tiles beneath their feet.
Poppy sat halfway down the line, alone.
This was nothing new. It had always been easier to keep her own company than to try forcing her way into their midst. To be respected was not the same as belonging.
Her spoon traced the same circle in her stew again and again. Maybe it was because she was a yordle: small, magical, a reminder of the wilds that Demacia liked to pretend it had tamed. Maybe because she was a woman among men, which carried its own brand of distance.
Or, increasingly she thought…
The fault might solely rest with herself as a person, somehow. Some vital missing component in her creation she could not so much as even grasp, ever the wrong shape for any chair she tried to sit in.
Worlds apart, Darius was situated at the head of his table. He was laughing at something one of his lieutenants said, the thunder of it rolling over the Demacian murmur like a tribal drumbeat. Leaning back, he gestured in a toast with a half-emptied tankard… and for a moment, Poppy could imagine herself in that orbit of heat and noise.
Perhaps her eyes lingered longer than they should have.
Suddenly, he fixed his gaze upon hers. A knowing grin curved like a sickle across his squared mouth, residing there uncomfortably long, as he tipped his tankard at her in the barest salute.
Heat pricked under the yordle's collar. She shoved back her stool, muttered something about needing air. Then walked briskly toward the side door, shouldering through it. And kept walking. She moved with her head low, no destination in mind. There was no sanctuary to be found here, so far from any semblance of home.
Her pulse was racing. Just… a little wound up, she told herself. Too long indoors, not enough action. And perhaps there was some truth to that. She was no stranger to long stretches of travelling by her lonesome—just her and the road, the weight of Orlon's hammer slung across her back. Out there, silence had a different texture. It was honest, open, a clean wind that left no questions. But here, the lack of sound was a thing that pressed in. The walls felt too close, the air too static. She kept telling herself it was the Games, the pressure of competition. The stark bitterness of defeat. But the truth hummed under that excuse like a taut bowstring: she wasn't used to anyone watching her this closely. Certainly not someone like him. And what could have caught his eye? A steel-blooded butcher—a villain, a hunkering dog of war—like that? Maybe that was what had her pacing the hall now, boots whispering over stone. A need to turn her back and shut the door on his gaze, his foaming intrigue.
She'd made it far enough that the sounds coming from the dining hall had dulled to a muffled hum. Stone walls lined in braziers rose high on either side of her, banners for both nations swaying faintly in the nighttime draft that whispered down the corridor. She had slowed in her stride, more out of habit than purpose—the long years of carrying Orlon's hammer had trained her to move in measured steps, conserving her strength.
It wasn't long before bootsteps pursued her, heavy and purposeful.
She didn't have to look to know who it was…
"Didn't take you for the type to flee at the first blush of discomfort," Darius said, his voice filling the narrow space as easily as he filled a doorway.
She glanced over her shoulder. "It's none of your concern."
He breached the remaining distance between them in two great strides, falling into place like a mountain shifted by an earthquake beside her. "You became my concern the moment you surrendered to me," he said, the torchlight painting his features in streaks of gold and shadow. "You will follow my instructions. You will not leave my sight unless I have willed it."
"I'm not your slave," she said flatly. "Or your pet."
"I would have whipped you into obedience by now if you were either."
She quickened her pace.
"I bet you think you're real tough, bossing around a defenseless girl. But I'm not interested–"
"That's leadership. One shade of it, at any rate." He kept his tone light, almost conversational. "You've led before, haven't you? A woman as wise and well-fought as you must have a wealth of experience to bring to the table."
Poppy stopped. She hesitated.
Through the dim moonlight she could see him raise an eyebrow.
"Me? Lead?" She shook her head, collecting herself. "I mean… yeah. I've been a commander. Enough times to know it's not about having the loudest voice."
"Depends on the room." His eyes slid to her, measuring. "Here is something to consider. You can continue to sit with your countrymen—there is comfort in that, familiarity. But I would proudly share my table with a warrior of your fiber. The experience could prove illuminating to you and I both. Who knows."
Poppy's brow tightened. She wasn't sure if the suggestion was borne out of arrogance, or genuine consideration. This uncertainty, it irritated her far more than any clear insult could have, as he continued:
"But I have a notion, either way, you would still be sitting apart. I wonder if that is by choice."
Poppy bristled. "It's only been a day, and you think you have me all figured out?"
He didn't immediately answer.
Instead, he looked away, taking half a step ahead.
"No. You are a curiosity to me, hammerbearer. I want to twist you apart, unravel you, while I have the chance. Before the day has come when we must both return to our previous stations. Before a day that might come…when we meet again on the field of battle."
He let that linger just a beat longer than was comfortable.
Poppy was without words, unable to grasp whatever sentiment was underlying his words. Her grip unconsciously tightened on the hammer strap slung over her shoulder, as if bracing against a wind that hadn't yet arrived.
Darius just smiled that wolfish smile of his. "I think the world is a slightly more interesting place with someone like you alive in it."
All she could do was stare. A sense of threat was gripping her, laced in something indecipherable.
Poppy had never liked the way Noxians smiled. Too sharp, too certain, as if they knew the ending of a story she'd only just started reading.
She sat on a low stool by the firepit, boots traded for fur-lined slippers that were far too warm, too soft. Her armor—what was left of it—had been stripped the moment they'd dragged her into camp. Though not forcibly. She'd handed each piece over one by one, teeth gritted, and given a sack dress to wear in exchange, pretending the rules of the game didn't bother her.
The Noxian warband captain crouched across from her, turning a skewer of meat over the flames. His armor was still on though his axe was gone from sight, black iron catching the light like a second skin. She'd learned his name only once, and even that had felt like giving him ground. *Darius*, he'd said, voice thick with amusement. She hadn't asked for more.
"You eat like you fight," he said now, watching her chew. "Efficient. Joyless. Like you're simply trying to get it over with."
She swallowed. "I'll eat however I please, thank you."
"Of course. I won't force you to do any different." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, meal forgotten. "Just know you're mine until the Games end. And I can't have my prize wasting away."
The word *mine* landed somewhere low in her gut with a heavy, molten thud.
She forced herself to meet his eyes, expecting mockery. Rather, she found…patience. Albeit it was the kind of patience of a huntsman. That of a man when he knew the deer would wander close eventually.
"You're toying with me," she said.
His smile was a slow, deliberate cut. "And you're allowing it."
The fire snapped between them. Poppy looked away, fixing her eyes on the embers. She'd fought hard all day—harder than she'd needed to, maybe, as if she could batter down something inside herself before it could be allowed to take shape. But here, in the hush between battle and sleep, her discipline felt like a dam with cracks spiderwebbing under the pressure.
He shifted closer, the scrape of his greaves in the dirt perilously loud in the otherwise quiet night. "Tell me something, hammerbearer." He spoke like a man coaxing a skittish animal. "When was the last time you let someone take care of you?"
She frowned. "I don't need—"
"I didn't ask if you needed it." His gaze caught hers, and she hated that she didn't look away. "I asked when you last let it happen."
The answer came to her immediately—never—but saying it would feel like handing him a key. So she held her tongue, chewing on silence instead. In those close confines she could smell him now: leather, smoke, and that faint tang of steel that clung to warriors like a second soul.
He nodded slowly, as if she'd answered anyway. "Thought so." The meat sizzled as he resumed turning the skewer again, but didn't break eye contact. "You've been carrying that hammer for what, a century? Maybe more? Fighting other people's battles. Guarding people who barely notice the wall you're standing on. All that discipline. All that weight you carry with you." He leaned in just enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. "And now, for once, you don't have to hold it. Not unless you want to."
Her fingers curled against her knees. He was still in character, still the captain with his "prize," but she could feel the edges of something truer bleeding in. And the dangerous part was that she could dare to believe him.
"You don't get to tell me what to do," she said, aiming for scoff but landing closer to whimper.
His smile was a knife's edge. "Not yet. But I will. And when I do…" He let the thought hang, dragging his gaze deliberately from her eyes to her mouth before sitting back again, satisfied. "…you'll thank me."
She should have laughed.
She should have told him to keep dreaming.
Instead, she found herself leaning just above the fire, as if the warmth could hide the flush rising to her ears.
So this is what the game is really about.