Legends of Runeterra

Too late, Silas of Ditchtown realized he had grossly underestimated the sheer, overwhelming harshness of the Freljord wastes. He'd known the north held immense magical power, and now that he was here, he could feel it in his bones. But now it seemed like a mistake.

A dozen hand-picked mages had set out with him into the frigid north, but one by one they fell, slain by blizzards, hidden chasms, and brutal beasts. He had expected the greatest threat to come from the barbarians of the Freljord, but so far, in weeks of travel, he hadn't seen a single living soul.

He couldn't imagine how people could live in such a place.

He had assumed they were well prepared, decked out in layers of furs and wools, and carrying plenty of food, firewood, weapons, and coin for trade—coins liberated from the tax collectors' coffers and noble treasuries of their homeland of Demacia—in the steeds of their long-haired oxen.

Even the bulls hadn't made it this far alive, so now Silas was alone.

He was driven by sheer willpower and a desire to see the fall of the Demacian monarch and nobles.

He had already stirred considerable resistance within Demacia. He had ignited the flames of rebellion, but he knew he needed more fuel to truly ignite it. In his Demacian prison, he had devoured every book, annals, and tome he could lay his hands on, many of which spoke of the terrible sorcery and ancient magics of the far north. That was the power he needed. Even now, facing death, he remained convinced that the power he sought was not far away...

Unfortunately, even his persistence wasn't enough to resist the relentless cold. His hands and toes had already turned black, and he'd long since lost all feeling. A heavy sense of sleepiness weighed on him, dragging his steps.

He thought he had seen a column of riders on a distant ridge not long ago, but he was not sure whether it was real or just some kind of hallucination caused by fatigue and low temperature.

However, he knew that stopping would mean death. He had to find that power in the north, or he would die.

So he continued to stagger along, one foot over the other... but he only took a few dozen more steps before he plunged headfirst into the snow and couldn't move.

Solva shook her head. Seeing the foreigner collapsed, she urged Bingya forward. This time, the man didn't stand up. She knew he was dead, taken by the merciless elements, a force she herself had long since lost to.

As she approached, Solva slid off the saddle and stepped into the snow, which was almost knee-deep. She carefully approached the prone figure, wading through the snow to make a path.

She looked at his restraints again, full of curiosity.

If he was an escaped prisoner, where did he escape from?

The Winter's Claw never held prisoners, though they occasionally enslaved survivors. If they couldn't be tamed or subdued into obedient slaves, every living being was a mouth to feed. Thorva suspected that even the Avarosans wouldn't hold prisoners in this way. Could he have escaped from the southern lands, crossing the mountains?

She gripped the staff with both hands and prodded him. Seeing no reaction, Solva dug the end of the staff into the snow beneath the stranger's body, trying to pry him onto his back. It was no easy task, as his massive handcuffs, covering almost his entire forearm, were surprisingly heavy. After some effort, she finally managed to roll him over.

He rolled lifelessly onto his front, his furry hood falling. His eyes were closed, sunken in the sockets, and his lips were a cyanotic color. His eyebrows, eyelashes, and beard were all frosted, and his black hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, was also covered with frost.

Thorva let her gaze drift to the shackles around his wrists. The Frost Sister had traveled extensively, her mission having taken her to many tribes over the years, yet the restraints before her, crafted from an unknown pale stone, were unlike anything she had ever seen. They filled her with a deep sense of unease. Even just looking at them brought a vague sense of discomfort, and it was clear they were never intended to be undone. What had this stranger done to deserve such restraints on his wrists? She concluded it must be a horrible crime.

Solva knelt beside him, trying to understand why she had been led here. Clearly, the gods had brought her here, as they had so often before. But why? The man was still unconscious, and would soon die. Was she led here to save him? Or was it what he brought that mattered most?

Solva's gaze returned to the stranger's shackles. She made a decision and reached for one of them.

Before she could touch the pale stone, she felt a sharp pain in her fingertips.

The man's eyes snapped open.

Solva jumped back in panic, but she was too slow. The figure removed a glove and grasped her arm. As Solva tried to summon her divine strength, she felt it ripped from her body, ripped from her very core. The sudden chill paralyzed her—a feeling she hadn't felt in years. Then she collapsed, unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to do anything.

As she was overcome by the cold, she vaguely saw that the stranger's face was red again, as if it had suddenly been warmed by a fire.

A smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.

"Thank you," he said.

Then he loosened his grip, and Thorva fell back on his back, exhaling a breath, weak and drained of everything.

Flena saw Shamanka fall, cursed, kicked Juvask under the crotch with her foot, and rode forward.

"Follow!" she roared, and the rest of the raiding party leapt into action. The ground shook with their thunderous charge, sounding like an avalanche.

The foreigner knelt on one knee beside the Frost Sister, and the Winter Claws rushed towards him, plowing deep furrows in the snow. What made her curious was that the man took off his fur coat and covered the shaman with it, and his movements seemed a little gentle.

Facing the oncoming, unstoppable Winter's Claw, he stood up, his chains dragging behind him. Fleena tightened her grip on her spear.