Legends of Runeterra

My name is Elisa Roshka Grongyana Vallochan. For two thousand years, my ancestors have reigned over the Delverhold.

Warlords, nations, and nascent empires, all eyeing the riches of the Ironthorn Mountains, have sought to overthrow us. But none have been able to breach our fortress. Like approaching waves, they have crumbled before our walls, their swords smitten and driven back.

From then on, my family was no longer a king.

She held her head high as she ascended the Triumphal Stairs with them. Every twelve steps, neatly uniformed guards flanked them, but she remained unmoved, her gaze fixed. Though this was her first time in the capital, Alyssa didn't want to show any shock; only the unsophisticated would be stunned. She was a Delverhold, her bloodline carried generations of kings.

The guards on either side of the stairs wore black steel armor. The ore from which their armor was forged came from beneath the Ironthorn Mountains, her homeland. All of Noxus' finest plate armor comes from the depths of these mountains. Five kings ago, her homeland was conquered by the Noxians and incorporated into the empire, and it has remained so ever since.

Red banners fluttered in the dry evening breeze as they continued up the stairs. The hot wind mingled with the smell of coal smoke and the workshop. No forge in Noxus was cold.

The Immortal Fortress loomed before them, dark and menacing.

Oram Arkhan Val-Lokan. Strong-shouldered and powerfully armed, a skilled swordsman, he was also arrogant and short-sighted—in Alyssa's eyes—but she always hid her disdain behind a mask of indifference. Born only minutes before Alyssa, Oram was two steps closer to the Delverhold throne. Alyssa knew her place.

In appearance, they were clearly twins. They shared the same tall stature and muscular build, the same cold gaze bestowed by their family bloodline, and the proud bearing of aristocrats. Both siblings wore their long, black hair in elaborate, dense braids, their faces adorned with sharp tattoos, and wore slate-gray cloaks over their armor.

They reached the top of the stairs, and with a flutter of wings, a crow flew over their heads.

Alyssa almost shrank back, but she managed to control herself. “Is this a bad omen, brother?”

She saw Oram's hands clenched into fists.

"For years, we've paid tribute to Noxus and provided armor for their soldiers," he snapped, barely trying to tone it down in front of the guards. "And in return?"

In exchange for a life, Alyssa thought, but she didn't say it out loud.

Two soldiers in full plate armor were already waiting outside the palace's metal gates. They stood at attention, their axes and halberds tightly grasped. Alyssa saw three notches on their breastplates, and they were covered in dark red cloaks—they were no ordinary guards.

"From the Trifari Legion." Oram breathed softly, his usual aura and arrogance gone.

In a land swarming with murderers, the Trifarii Legion commands the greatest reverence—friend and foe alike. It's said that when they appear, cities and nations bow down before them in battle.

"That's their protocol," Alyssa said. "Come on, brother. It's time to see this so-called 'Council of Three' with your own eyes."

The first thing anyone sees upon entering the audience chamber is the throne of the former Noxian emperors. It's a massive object, carved from a single block of obsidian, rough and angular. Countless banners drape around it, tall pillars form sharply angled columns, and candles burn in candelabra—everything draws the guest's gaze to the throne. It dominates the entire space.

But the throne was empty. It had been so since the death of the previous Noxian leader.

Not dead, Alyssa reflected to herself, but executed.

Noxus has no emperor, no tyrant on the throne. Not anymore.

Before Alyssa left the Delverhold, someone explained the new system of the empire to her.

"The Trifarix," her father's chief advisor had told her. "It means three men, each representing a different strength—foresight, force, and cunning. The idea is that while a single figure might bring Noxus to ruin through incompetence, madness, or corruption, with three, there are always two who can suppress an out-of-control individual."

Alyssa thought the concept was interesting, but it hadn't been tested in any practical context.

The hall felt spacious, enough to accommodate a thousand people, but now it was empty. Only three figures sat on the high platform at the foot of the throne, surrounding a simple marble table.

Two grim, silent Trifarii warriors accompanied Alyssa and her brother toward the three. Their footsteps echoed sharply on the cold ground. The three, whispering in a low voice, paused as the scion of the Delverhold approached. They sat in a row, facing the approaching envoys like three judges.

Two of them were well-known and she knew them. The third... no one really knew him.

Sitting in the center, his eagle eyes fixed, was Jericho Swain—the renowned foresight master, the new High Commander. Some nobles still called him the usurper, for he was the one who dragged the mad Bron Darkwill from the throne, but none dared to speak so to his face. His gaze, profound, first shifted to Oram, then to Alyssa. She forced herself not to glance at the left arm beneath his coat. It was said that this hand had been severed by a blade-wielding siren from the Faerie Isles during the failed Ionian invasion.

To his right sat Darius, the legendary Hand of Noxus, leader of the elite Trifarii Legion, commanding the armies of the entire Empire. He was the very embodiment of force. While Swain sat formally, Darius leaned back in his chair, drumming his armor-clad hands on the wooden arms. His arms were thick, his expression serious.

The third figure—the "Faceless One," as they called him—was a complete mystery. He sat motionless, shrouded from head to toe in layers of voluminous robes. He also wore a glossy black mask, expressionless and cold-eyed. Even the small eyeholes were covered with black mesh, completely obscuring his identity. His hands were also uncovered, hidden within the sleeves of the heavy fabric. Alyssa thought she saw faint traces of female features in the mask, but it could simply be the lighting.

Darius raised his chin imperceptibly, and the two legionnaires escorting them saluted, striking their armored fists on their breastplates and retreating six steps, leaving Alyssa and her brother alone before the Trifarious Council.