Legends of Runeterra

The first rays of dawn filtered down to the beams and eaves of Xiongdu, tinting the pale stone surfaces with gold. The air was stagnant. In the elevated gardens east of Xiongdu, the only sounds were the gentle, mournful chirping of birds in the sky and the murmur of the city below as it gradually awakened.

Xin Zhao sat cross-legged on a stone platform, his hands resting on a spear between his knees. He gazed down at the garden steps below, the battlements in the distance, and the vast expanse of Demacia's capital beyond. Watching the sun rise over his adopted home usually brought Xin Zhao peace... but not today.

His cloak was stained with char and blood, and his armor was dented and scratched. A few strands of hair had escaped his bun and hung in front of his face, their steely gray strands no longer the jet-black sheen of their youth. On a normal day, he would have washed and combed his hair, removing the scent of blood, sweat, and fire. He would have taken his armor to the smithy for repair and replaced it with a new cloak. He was polite, after all, the Steward of Demacia.

But today is not an ordinary day.

The king has passed away.

He was the most respectable man Zhao Xin had ever met, and his admiration and love for the king surpassed anyone else's. He had sworn to protect him... yet Zhao Xin was nowhere to be found when it mattered most.

He took a deep, painful breath. Frustration nearly overwhelmed him.

The mage revolt the previous day had caught the entire city unawares. Zhao Xin had raced back to the palace, wounded along the way, but he felt nothing. For hours, he sat there, alone, letting the chill of stone seep into his bones, letting the sorrow, shame, and guilt cover him like a shroud. The palace guards who had survived the attack left his grief alone. They sealed off the terraced gardens, allowing him to sit in silence for a moment of darkness. Zhao Xin was grateful for this small mercy. He didn't know how to face the resentment in their eyes.

Finally, the sun shone upon him, like the light of judgment, and the blinding light forced him to half-close his eyes.

He sighed deeply, clenched his teeth, and rose to his feet, leaning on his knees. He took one last look at the city he loved so much, and the garden that had brought him solace. Then he turned and returned to the palace.

He had made a promise many years ago, and now he intended to keep it.

Weak and distraught, Zhao Xin felt like a lingering ghost, wandering the place where he ultimately died. He would rather have died in battle. Dying to save the emperor at least allowed him to die with dignity.

He wandered along the palace corridors, and everything was suddenly cold and still. The servants who passed him said nothing, pacing past in an eerie silence. The guards who stood guard wore mournful expressions on their faces. They saluted, but he bowed his head. He didn't deserve the courtesy.

Finally, Zhao Xin reached a closed door. He reached out to knock, but paused. Were his hands shaking? Cursing his own weakness, he rapped sharply on the oak wood a few times before standing at attention, pressing the butt of his spear into the ground. For a long, still moment, he remained motionless, staring at the door before him, waiting for it to open.

Two guards patrolling the palace appeared around the corner, passing him with the clang of armor. Shame kept him from looking at them. The door remained closed.

"I remember Marshal Crownguard went to the North Courtyard, Your Excellency," one of the guards said, "and is directing the deployment of additional defenses."

Zhao Xin sighed inwardly, but gritted his teeth and nodded in thanks to the guard.

"My Lord..." said another guard, "no one blames you—"

"Thank you, soldier," Zhao Xin interrupted. He didn't need their sympathy. The two guards saluted and continued their patrol.

Zhao Xin turned and headed back toward the two guards, following the corridor toward the palace's north wing. Marshal Tiana Crownguard's absence from the office was no reprieve or pardon, merely a prolongation of the ordeal.

He walked through a hall hung with military flags and banners, pausing beneath one—a blue field embroidered with the white winged sword of Demacia. The banner had been hand-sewn by the queen mother and her personal maid. Though a third of it had burned, it remained a work of exquisite craftsmanship and magnificent beauty. It had been lost during the Battle of Saltpoint, but King Jarvan personally led the charge to reclaim it, with Xin Zhao at his side. They fought their way through hundreds of fur-clad Freljord berserkers to reclaim it, and Xin Zhao bore it—even as flames licked away its borders, the banner still fluttered in the wind. The sight turned the tide of the day's battle, rallying the Demacian soldiers to a miraculous victory. Returning safely, Jarvan refused to repair the banner. He hoped that all who saw it would never forget the history it represented.

Zhao Xin passed a small room. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the palace, it served as a quiet library. The king had once loved to spend his evenings here, away from the harassment of servants and nobles. Zhao Xin had spent many long nights there with the king, sipping strong mead, discussing strategic and political finesse, and reminiscing about their youth, long gone.

In public, Jarvan was usually reserved and serious. But here, in his inner sanctuary—especially when his glass was empty and the sky was getting light—he would laugh until he cried and passionately talk about his own wishes and the dreams he had for his son.

Another wave of pain washed over Zhao Xin. He realized he would never hear his old friend's laughter again.

Suddenly, Zhao Xin found himself at the entrance of the training hall. He had probably spent the vast majority of the past twenty years there. It was his true home, his place of peace. He had spent countless hours sparring with the king. It was there that the king had been delighted to see the prince accept Zhao Xin as a member of his family. There, Zhao Xin had taught the prince swordsmanship, spearmanship, and lance; there, he had wiped his tears and helped him up when he fell; there, he had shared his laughter and celebrated his victories.

The thought of the prince was like a knife stabbing into his stomach. Xin Zhao had lost a lifelong friend, while young Jarvan had lost a father. His mother had died in childbirth, and now he was alone.

Zhao Xin felt a lump in his throat. He was about to move on when a familiar sound stopped him: an unsharpened sword struck a wooden stake. Someone was training. Zhao Xin frowned.