Legends of Runeterra

Quinn ran through the forest, his steps light and swift. Dawn had passed, but the sun had not yet risen over the eastern hilltops. The sky was cold and grim, casting a gray veil over everything. Every breath Quinn exhaled condensed into white mist.

There were no paths to follow here, the untouched woodlands carpeting the foothills of the Eastern Suburbs Mountains. Ferns and vines covered moss, rocks, rotting wood, and tangled tree roots, but Quinn felt more at home here than in any city or town, and the difficult terrain didn't slow her pace. Despite her rapid progress, only a handful of hunters in all of Demacia could hope to detect her tracks—and those few were trained by Quinn herself. Her steps were truly light.

Something flashed across her vision, and she dropped to the ground beneath a bush, suddenly still, her golden eyes unblinking, their piercing gaze piercing everything.

For ten breaths, she remained motionless, completely unrecognizable in the undergrowth. She caught another glimpse of movement, her attention immediately alerted... and she realized it was a giant deer. It was a massive creature, its antlers at least as long as two men's arms. It had begun its molting, a silvery-white coat that would soon transform into winter.

Some say encountering a giant deer is a good omen. Quinn didn't quite believe it, but now she's willing to believe it. Demacia needs as many good omens as possible these days.

For the past few months, Quinn had been aiding the 11th in searching for the rebellious mages. Emboldened by the Kingslayer, Silas of the Ditch, they had retreated into the northern Demacia wilderness. However, her hunters were few in number, and the 11th was only adept at dealing with frontal enemy formations. They had fought a few mobile and skirmishes, but it felt like wrestling with smoke.

Quinn had lost three hunters in recent weeks, and their deaths weighed heavily on her. So when she received the order to leave the hunting mages' front lines, she was indignant. Her mission was to escort Garen Crownguard and a detachment of the Dauntless Vanguard on a diplomatic mission outside Demacia. She was to rendezvous with them at the southern foot of Greenfang Peak in three days.

This mission seemed inappropriate at this time, and Quinn wanted to hand it off to one of his hunters—perhaps to Yulmhat. However, the military order, delivered by dragon bird, specifically named Quinn.

Moreover, there can be no mistakes in the seal of Marshal Tiana Crownguard.

She glanced at the stag once more, then stood back up. The stag had seen her now, but didn't panic and flee.

"Praise, tribute, noble deer." She said, nodding slightly.

The road to Greentooth Peak was long, but the weather was clear, and she was confident she could reach the rendezvous point ahead of schedule.

The sun finally climbed above the mountaintop, its golden rays filtering through the forest canopy, casting dappled spots of light on the ground. The wind shifted, bringing with it a familiar smell.

smoke.

A sharp cry pierced the morning air. Quinn looked up and saw Valor through the leaves of the towering fir trees.

"What do you see up there, little brother?" she said softly.

The blue rock eagle circled twice in the air, then flew straight eastward, like a blue arrow shooting towards the sun. Quinn did not stop and immediately turned around to follow.

A moment later, she climbed a ridge and, in a rare clearing in the woods, had a clear view of the valley ahead. The valley floor had been somewhat cleared, and a few livestock could be seen scattered across the grassy plains divided by stones. Normally, it would be a peaceful and beautiful scene, but Quinn's gaze followed the smoke to a charred cabin. Her expression hardened.

She began to walk down the steep slope toward the valley.

Quinn circled the smoking cabin cautiously. She knew bandits would set fire to houses to lure prey, so she first had to make sure it wasn't a trap before approaching and investigating.

In her hand, she held a rapid-fire crossbow, its bolt already nocked. It was a unique weapon, exquisitely crafted and compact. While not as powerful as a traditional heavy crossbow, it could be aimed and fired with one hand, without affecting movement or requiring frequent draws. Therefore, to Quinn, its value was equal to ten times its own weight in gold.

She frowned as she noticed many tracks on the ground. A lot had happened near the cabin, but it seemed she was alone now. Quinn approached the cabin cautiously, crossbow raised.

The hut was simple, but built with care. She pushed open the heavy front door, the panels still hanging from their hinges, still smoldering with embers, and stepped inside.

A simple vase of wilted wildflowers stood on a charred hardwood table. Handwoven curtains, most of which had been burned, hung mournfully from the window frames. Quinn noticed that both curtains had been drawn, and the remaining shutters were also closed. The fire must have started during the night.

Quinn noticed tiny scratches on the side of the thick oak door frame, and a distant memory surfaced: Quinn's parents had used a similar method to record her and her brother's growth.

This isn't a hunter's cabin, occupied only during hunting season—it's a home.

Chairs and cabinets were overturned and smashed. Drawers had been pulled out, their contents scattered across the floor. Nothing of value was left. On the wall above the stove, Quinn noticed the outline of a shield.

As she turned, something in the ashes caught a ray of sunlight streaming through the hole in the canopy. Leaning down, she saw something, perhaps a coin, wedged between the stove and the floor. Quinn sheathed her crossbow and pried it free with the point of her hunting knife. It looked like it had fallen there accidentally—if the floor hadn't been warped by the fire, she wouldn't have been able to see it.

Quinn finally pried it free and discovered it was a palm-sized silver shield bearing the winged sword emblem of Demacia. On the back was engraved the words: "A reward to Malak Hornbridge of the Third Regiment. Demacia remembers your service."

This was a commemorative shield awarded to the families of those killed on the front lines. Quinn had personally delivered several similar shields to the spouses and parents of the fallen soldiers.

She pocketed the medallion—it felt awkward to leave it in the ruins. Quinn continued to explore the cabin. In a room that was clearly a bedroom, the fire wasn't too severe; the delicate wreath hanging above the bed hadn't been burned.