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Demacian Camp
A heavy, dull atmosphere lingered in the command tent.
Garen Crownguard sat at the head of the table, his head bowed in regret.
Weariness lined his face, but it was the weight in his heart that truly marked him.
'If I hadn't left… would things have ended differently?'
He had heard of the clash while en route and pushed himself to the limit to return, but even his greatest effort had brought him back too late.
Demacia had misjudged the speed of Darius and the Trifarian Legion.
What was meant to be a decisive push ended in disaster—a surprise assault that shattered the front and turned the tide.
"Garen!"
The shout, raw with fury, cut through the silence.
An older Demacian general staggered to his feet, his left arm missing and bleeding through a hastily wrapped bandage.
Reid Laurent—commander of the Fourth Army.
"Where were you when His Highness needed you? Where were you when the prince was struck down?"
The words hit harder than any blade. Demacia's legions had clashed with Noxus across a brutal front.
Prince Jarvan IV had led the charge himself, with the Fourth Legion holding the flank. But they had been overwhelmed.
Reid had lost his arm in the melee—brought low by the ferocity of Darius, the Hand of Noxus.
And Garen, who should've been at the prince's side, was nowhere to be found. The Fearless Vanguard, leaderless, had fought with honor—but fell short of their crucial duty.
"I was recalled to High Silvermere by the Grand Marshal," Garen said, voice heavy with guilt.
"The fault is mine."
The Crownguard family motto—Self-discipline and strength—echoed bitterly in his mind as he bowed his head.
"The Grand Marshal ordered me to return the Dauntless Vanguard to the capital," Garen continued.
"But the situation has changed."
He relayed the message sent by High Marshal Tiana Crownguard.
Reid narrowed his eyes, doubt creeping into his expression.
"The Winged Protector… she hasn't been seen in nearly a century. Can we truly believe she would return now?"
It wasn't that Reid distrusted Garen—but the notion of the Winged Protector, Demacia's divine guardian, appearing on the battlefield felt like a dream.
The stories said she came only in moments of true crisis—when Demacia faced utter ruin.
"She will," Garen said with quiet certainty.
"She already has."
Just then, a radiant beam of light pierced the gloom outside, flooding the camp in brilliant, golden radiance.
A distant, melodic hymn echoed across the sky, stirring every heart that heard it.
The tent fell into stunned silence as every soul present turned and stepped outside.
Under the starlit sky—now shining like dawn—they fell to their knees.
"Justice has come!"
The voice was calm, resolute—a perfect blend of strength and grace.
The light converged into a single point, intensifying, until it formed a figure descending from above.
She had come.
The Winged Protector.
Her white wings spread wide, armor gleaming like sunlight on polished steel.
Justice radiated from her very being.
She was the embodiment of righteousness—the protector of Demacia, a living symbol of hope.
The Winged Protector raised a brilliant emerald blade high into the sky.
A surge of holy energy rippled outward, sweeping across the camp in a wave of pure light.
Radiance poured into every corner, bathing the soldiers of Demacia in its healing warmth.
Deep wounds sealed in moments. Poison leached from flesh as if it had never touched them.
Even those with severed limbs—though left physically unchanged—felt a strange sense of wholeness return to their spirit.
One by one, the soldiers emerged from their tents, drawn by the overwhelming presence of their savior.
They stood in silence, offering the Demacian salute, eyes wide with awe and reverence.
To them, she was more than a guardian.
She was their shield in the darkness. Their unshakable light.
Beneath her wings, they felt invincible.
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Camp of Noxus
Atop the blackened walls of Noxus stood Darius, unmoving, his massive axe resting against the stone beside him.
At his side, bound and bruised but still defiant, stood Prince Jarvan IV.
"Our reinforcements have arrived," Jarvan said with a bloodied grin.
"You'd best kill me now."
In the far distance, a golden light began to rise, its brilliance unmistakable.
Jarvan's father had once spoken of the three legendary guardians of Demacia—figures of such might they rivaled the gods.
One of them had returned.
The Winged Protector had come.
Darius tilted his head slightly, giving Jarvan a sidelong glance.
"Mortals call anything they don't understand a god," he said.
"But in the end, they all bleed the same."
Jarvan scoffed. "That's because savages like you have never known real power."
"Real power?"
Darius echoed, before another voice—colder, sharper—cut through the moment.
"It's nothing more than a fragment of justice... wielded by a fragmented soul," said Swain, stepping forward from the shadows behind the wall.
Draped in dark robes beneath his iron breastplate, his crimson eyes glinted with cunning malice.
He didn't look at Jarvan, only turned toward the horizon where light burned in the sky.
"LeBlanc. Is everything in place?"
A sultry voice answered, smooth as silk.
"By your command, Grand General. The water mages and black sorcerers have returned to the capital as directed."
From the shadow of a crumbling tower, LeBlanc emerged, black robes flowing behind her like smoke.
Her crimson lips curled into a smile as she watched the distant glow.
"I made sure no one noticed. Though it wasn't easy."
Swain remained stone-faced.
"Your rewards come with victory. Until then—begin."
"As you wish," LeBlanc replied, giving a theatrical bow.
All across the city, hooded figures began to move.
From alleys and rooftops, they emerged—some holding staves, others ancient tomes, and still more with empty hands crackling with arcane energy.
Blue and black magic surged through the air, wild and chaotic, like a storm without center.
Within seconds, the weather changed.
The sky darkened unnaturally. Heavy clouds rolled in, thick with moisture.
The air turned damp, choking. Rain began to fall—soft at first, then with growing urgency.
"…This isn't a counterattack," Jarvan muttered, his eyes flicking from the gathering mages to the calm readiness of the Noxian ranks.
The rain soaked his armor, but it wasn't the chill that made him shiver.
They weren't bracing for justice.
They weren't preparing for war.
No.
This was trap.
They were preparing to reel in something massive.