Legends of Runeterra

Sister Thorval of Frost pulled the reins, and the massive Juvask boar stopped beside Flena, the scarred mother of Winter's Claw. The shaggy beast snorted in protest, a cloud of hot air turning into mist.

"Be good, Icefang," Thorva said, patting her fiery mount gently, and the bone amulets and totems wrapped around her wrists rustled.

A biting cold wind swept across the barren landscape, but one person in the raiding group stood out from the crowd: Thorva, unadorned by heavy furs. Her bare arms, entwined with indigo tattoos, lay exposed to the elements, yet she felt no discomfort, for the cold had long since lost its power over her.

The imposing figure of Scarmother Flena sat atop another Juvask boar, a tusked beast even larger than Thorva's own. It growled in frustration, stomping a hoof against the ground and glaring at Thorva with malice. Flena gave it a sharp kick, stilling it.

The Scarmother was a ruthless and experienced warrior with countless bloody victories under her belt, but Thorva could not be intimidated. Though her name had not yet spread across the Freljord like the Scarmother, she was a shamanka, a visionary of the gods' will, and in the Freljord, even the most powerful matriarchs respected the old faith.

The rest of the Winter's Claw raiders also reined in, awaiting instructions from their Scarmother and Shamanka. They had been marching at a steady pace for most of the day, heading eastward into Avarosan territory. This was the first time they had stopped in hours, sliding out of their saddles to stretch their backs and loosen their numb legs.

The wind grew stronger, mixing with ice and snow and whipping Solva.

"The storm is coming," she said.

Fleena didn't respond. Her face, covered in scars, stared southward. Her right eye was cloudy, blinding, and a few strands of white had appeared in her jet-black hair—all her scars were marks left by the world. Within the Winter Claw tribe, scars were proof of survival, a source of pride and reverence.

"Is there anything unusual?" Solva asked.

Fleina nodded and continued to look into the distance.

Solva squinted, but it was hard to see in the worsening weather.

"I didn't see anything."

"You have two good eyes, but you are blinder than I am, Nizi," Flena said sharply.

Solva clenched his fists, frost forming on his knuckles, and his pupils turned icy blue. It didn't matter, he controlled his anger and forced himself to take a deep breath.

It was clear that Scarmother Freinar, like most of the Winter's Claw tribe, disdained her and her beliefs. Furthermore, Thorva's uninvited arrival in the raiding group made Freinar undoubtedly believe that the shaman's presence would be a distraction for those prone to superstition, disrupt their goals, and even threaten her authority.

In truth, it was a vague but powerful intuition that had urged Solva to join the raid. The Scar Mother's initial objections hadn't worked, and she had long ago learned to trust this inexplicable impulse; it was a gift. The gods had intended her to be here, but for what purpose, she didn't know.

"There, about a mile south," Flena pointed, "near that raised rock. Do you see it?"

Solva finally nodded. A lone figure was faintly visible, like a shadow on the snow. Flena couldn't imagine how she had seen it in the first place. Solva frowned, feeling a sharp tingle at the back of her neck. Whoever that figure was, there was something strange about it...

The strong wind blew and the figure disappeared again, but Solva's uneasiness remained strong.

"Avarosan's spy?"

“No,” Freyna shook her head. “This person is following a moraine further down. Not even a child from the Freljord would make that mistake.”

"They must be foreigners. But why would they go so deep into the North?"

Scarmother Freinna shrugged. "The Avarosans don't follow the old ways. They trade with the southerners rather than plunder them outright. Perhaps this man is just a lost trader."

Fleena spat contemptuously, then pulled the reins, turning Juvask and continuing on his way. The other warriors followed her lead, turning their heavy mounts' heads and returning to the path that followed the ridge, heading east. Only Thorva remained, trying to look into the storm.

"That person may have discovered us as well. If our whereabouts were reported to the Avarosan tribe, they would have taken precautions in advance."

"That fool won't bring any news to anyone, perhaps only to some god beyond the living and the dead," Flena said loudly. "The storm is about to intensify. That man will die before nightfall. Let's go, we've already wasted a long time."

But something still made Solva uneasy. She still stood on the edge of the ridge, looking back in the direction of the lone foreigner, but now she could only see clearly a dozen steps away. Was this why she was summoned here?

"Nizi!" Flena called out. "Are you coming?"

Solva glanced at Flena, then looked back to the south.

"Do not."

Solva gently clamped her Juvask boar and walked down the mountain. She heard Flena curse behind her, and a satisfied smile appeared on her face.

"We're following her, aren't we?"

The speaker was Brokval Ironfist, the hulking Iceborn warrior who had been her champion and occasional lover for nearly a decade.

"If anything happens to her, God will be angry with our tribe," Brokval added.

If Freinar had to choose one man from all the Freljord to fight beside her, she would likely choose Brokval. He was half a head taller than her next strongest warrior, strong enough to lift a gyrvask flat on his back. He was a man worthy of her trust. He lived to fight, and he excelled at it. He carried the broadsword Wintersigh slung across his back.

This sword is a legend among the Winter's Claw clan, passed down through generations of Iceborn for centuries. A core of unmelting True Ice lies embedded in Winter's Sigh's hilt, a shimmering frost enveloping the blade. Anyone other than an Iceborn who attempts to wield it—including Freyna—will suffer great pain, even death.

If he had a weakness, it was superstition. He interpreted everything he saw as an omen or a vision, from the flight patterns of ravens to splatters of blood on the snow. And what troubled Flena most was that he worshipped the self-righteous shaman Ka, even considering every path she traversed to be holy ground.