A Fire for Revenge
The Forest between Kalstead City & Ravenhurst
After the Noxian assassins were dead, Powder briefly considered the idea of riding Warwick back to Ravenhurst. However, the sight of his blood-soaked fur, matted with body parts from the assassins he had killed, quickly put an end to that thought.
Powder glanced at Warwick, his blood-soaked form still standing ominously, and she shrugged nonchalantly. “Look at him, Ekko. He's a mess. Not happening.”
Ekko grimaced. “I wasn’t planning on it. But what the hell do we do now?”
Before Powder could respond, a distant explosion rocked the air, followed by a cloud of thick black smoke rising from the direction of Kalstead.
“Kalstead,” Powder muttered, squinting into the distance.
Powder didn’t hesitate. "We’re going there."
Without another word, they both turned and began heading toward the city. Warwick, hearing them, growled and followed behind.
In the West Coastline of Kalstead
Jarvan wiped blood from his blade, his eyes narrowing. “This wasn’t just an ambush. They’re planning something bigger.”
Before they could dwell on it further, a distant explosion rocked the air, followed by a plume of dark smoke rising from the direction of Kalstead.
Xin Zhao’s expression darkened. “The city…”
Jarvan sheathed his sword, his jaw tightening. “We move. Now.”
Xin Zhao glanced at the dead horses, blood pooling beneath them. “On foot, then. We don’t have time to waste.”
Without another word, the two began running toward the source of the explosion, their weapons still at the ready. The thick plume of smoke rising from Kalstead painted the sky, an ominous beacon drawing them forward. Urgency burned in their veins as they pushed through the rugged terrain, the weight of the attack heavy on their minds.
Whatever awaited them in the city, Jarvan knew it would demand every ounce of their strength and resolve.
A little away from Kalstead dockyard, in the sea
The waters rippled unnaturally as the distant explosion sent a faint shockwave across the sea. A Demacian patrolling ship, its white sails emblazoned with the golden winged crest, rocked slightly from the impact. The faint rumble reached the ears of the crew, and all eyes turned toward the horizon.
A plume of dark smoke curled ominously into the sky above Kalstead, stark against the fading light of the evening. The captain wasted no time, his voice booming across the deck. “Signal the watchtower!”
A red torch was lit at the ship’s bow, its fiery glow cutting through the dusk as it burned brightly. The signal was unmistakable—a call for reinforcements.
Miles away, on the mainland, the light of the torch was spotted by a vigilant sentry stationed at the watchtower near the border of Demacia. Without hesitation, the sentry rang a massive iron bell, its deep clang reverberating through the quiet night. The barracks below erupted into motion as soldiers scrambled to prepare.
Inside, stable hands worked frantically to saddle horses, their hooves stamping against the stone floors in restless anticipation. Blacksmiths handed out freshly sharpened blades and spears, while officers barked orders to form ranks.
“Cavalry, to the docks!” one shouted, his voice cutting through the clamor.
Within moments, a small detachment of cavalrymen, armed to the teeth and clad in shining Demacian armor, galloped toward the waiting ship. The vessel itself was being hastily loaded with supplies—barrels of rations, crates of arrows, and enough firepower to confront a siege. The soldiers moved with practiced efficiency, their faces grim with the knowledge that they were heading into the unknown.
As the ship’s gangplank was raised and its sails unfurled, the captain at the helm tightened his grip on the wheel. The air was tense with urgency as the ship began its journey, cutting swiftly through the waves toward Kalstead, where the rising smoke promised nothing but chaos and conflict.
Back in the town square
The air was heavy with tension. Mireya stood tall before her prisoners, her sharp gaze sweeping over the kneeling Demacian soldiers. Their weapons lay in a pile behind the mercenaries, a grim reminder of their helplessness. Among the captives, Quinn knelt with her head held high, defiance flickering in her eyes despite her binds.
The townspeople gathered cautiously at the edges of the square, their faces a mixture of fear and anger. Some clutched each other, while others whispered urgently, their gazes darting between the prisoners and the mercenaries who surrounded them. Though they outnumbered the captors, they were unarmed and powerless against the lethal weaponry of Mireya’s forces. Among them were the elderly, children, and the young—each face etched with dread at the unfolding nightmare.
When the blast echoed across Kalstead, the ground trembled faintly beneath their feet. The crowd gasped collectively, their eyes turning toward the black smoke now spiraling into the sky. Mireya’s reaction, however, was markedly different. She sighed deeply, her expression momentarily betraying a flicker of weariness.
Turning to the leader of the compromised Demacian soldiers beside her, she spoke with calm precision, her voice sharp and commanding. “We’ve got two hours—maybe less—before the cavalry comes storming in.”
The soldier, a hardened man with a scar cutting across his jaw, nodded grimly. “And Jarvan? Xin Zhao?”
“They’ll be here sooner,” Mireya replied with a hint of irritation, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the hilt of her sword. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she muttered, almost to herself, “And then there’s the trio—the Monster, the Blue-Haired Freak, and her Boyfriend. If they’re still breathing, they won’t be far off.”
Her gaze drifted toward the edge of the square, where the townspeople stood frozen, watching helplessly. A flicker of worry crossed her otherwise composed face, her brows knitting briefly before she steeled herself again.
“We need to end this before anyone complicates it further,” she said, her voice quieter but no less deadly. The words hung in the air like a knife poised to strike, carrying a weight that even her own soldiers could feel.
The leader leaned closer to Mireya, his voice low and strained. “We’re surrounded by the townspeople. How exactly are we getting out of here?”
Mireya turned to him with an unshaken expression, her lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said cryptically before stepping forward, her boots echoing against the cobblestones as she faced the crowd gathering at the edges of the square.
Her sharp gaze swept across their frightened, desperate faces—men, women, children, and elders, unarmed yet unwilling to back down. A cold silence hung over the square as she began to speak, her voice clear and sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“Look at you all,” Mireya began, her tone filled with bitter frustration. “Huddled together like lambs, thinking you can save these so-called defenders. You act as if my guild has wronged you, as if we’ve been your greatest threat. But tell me—have we ever killed anyone? Have we ever shed blood without reason?”
She paused, letting the rhetorical question hang in the air before continuing, her voice growing sharper. “Maybe one. Maybe two. Yes, my guild has taken lives. But tell me this—how many lives have been taken under the banner of your so-called protectors?”
Mireya’s fiery eyes shifted to the kneeling Demacian prisoners, her voice rising with righteous anger. “And now, you put your faith in them, these knights in shining armor, here to defend you. Do you think they’re here out of duty to you? Or is it to maintain their precious borders, their own pride?” She gestured around sharply, her frustration spilling out. “Where were they before? When you were hungry, struggling, abandoned? You call this protection? It’s nothing more than pity wrapped in steel!”
Before anyone could respond, a sharp crack split the air. One of the mercenaries raised his pistol and fired, the bullet piercing the back of a prisoner’s head. The soldier slumped forward instantly, blood pooling beneath him.
The crowd erupted into gasps and cries of horror. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes; elders stumbled back in shock. Quinn’s eyes widened with fury and anguish as she struggled against her bonds. “You bastard!” she yelled, her voice trembling with rage.
Mireya raised a hand, silencing both the crowd and her own men with her commanding presence. “If you want to watch every single one of your ‘guardians’ die like that,” she said coldly, her voice dripping with venom, “then stay right here. But if you can’t stomach it, if you’d rather save your own miserable hides, leave now.”
She gestured toward the kneeling soldiers, her tone growing sharper. “Look at them—your so-called protectors. See how they have to risk everything, their lives hanging by a thread, just for the sake of protecting you. Kill or be killed—that’s the reality of their job, and yet you cling to them like they owe you something.” Her voice dropped, laced with bitter contempt. “How easy it is to watch them suffer when you don’t have to bear the weight of a sword yourself.”
The leader of the compromised Demacian soldiers stepped closer to Mireya, his face pale and voice unsteady. “This… this is your plan? To scare them off? Are you insane? How does this help us escape?”
Mireya turned to him, her expression eerily calm. “Escape?” she repeated, almost amused. “There is no escape plan.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “I’m going to burn this city to the ground. Just like I promised Swain. This isn’t about survival. This is about revenge.”
Mireya’s words were cut short by the unexpected clink of metal. A grenade rolled to a stop right at her feet, its casing painted with crude, chaotic designs—a signature that only one person could claim.
Her eyes widened in recognition, and without hesitation, she grabbed the traitorous leader by the arm and pulled him down with her as she leaped to the side. The grenade hissed ominously, but instead of an explosion, it released a faint puff of blue smoke, barely enough to obscure her vision.
Before Mireya could process the anticlimax, a blaring metal riff erupted from a loudspeaker, its chaotic energy setting the scene ablaze. A distorted, teasing voice followed, echoing through the town square.
“Helloooo, Villains! You thought you’d take our home? Think again! This city’s got protectors now, and we’re just getting warmed up!”
The crowd of townspeople hesitated, their confusion turning to faint hope as the words ignited something within them.
Then, more grenades began to rain down around Mireya’s group. One by one, they detonated in bursts of brilliant, chaotic color—red, green, purple, and yellow smoke swirled together, shrouding the town square in a vibrant haze that swallowed everything in sight.
The voice from the loudspeaker returned, sharper this time, commanding attention. “Everyone, clear out of the square—NOW! Get to the docks! These scumbags planted bombs all over the city!”
The warning sent the townspeople into motion, panic and determination intertwining as they pushed through the haze, desperate to escape.
From within the smoke, figures emerged like shadows, rebels armed with improvised weapons and raw determination. They struck fast and hard, capitalizing on the confusion. The mercenaries, disoriented and caught off guard, scrambled to regroup as the rebels clashed with them, fighting to free the captured Demacian soldiers.
The town square descended into chaos as the revolutionaries, inspired by the infamous spirit of defiance that Powder had left behind, rose to defend their city.
Even amidst the vibrant chaos of the smoke-filled square, the tide of battle was turning once again. Gunshots rang out, echoing in every direction as revolutionaries clashed with mercenaries and the traitorous soldiers who had once sworn loyalty to Demacia. Blood stained the cobblestones, but in the thick haze, it was impossible to tell which side was suffering more losses.
The townspeople, spurred by the warning, surged toward the docks, desperate to escape the chaos. In the fray, some of the captured Demacian soldiers managed to free themselves, including Quinn. But as the smoke began to dissipate, the revolutionaries found themselves at a severe disadvantage. Outnumbered and outgunned, their morale faltered as the mercenaries regrouped, their superior firepower cutting through the resistance.
Near the center of the square, a young revolutionary girl grappled desperately with a towering mercenary. His strength easily overwhelmed her, and with a swift motion, he shoved her to the ground. She gasped for breath, her weapon knocked away, as the mercenary raised his rifle, the barrel trained directly at her.
The sound of a gunshot cracked through the air—but it wasn’t his rifle that fired. The mercenary’s hand jerked violently, the rifle flying from his grip as his gauntlet-clad wrist was pierced clean through by a glowing hex-powered bullet. His scream echoed across the square, and he clutched his hand, blood welling briefly before the wound hissed and sealed shut.
From a distance, Caitlyn stepped into view, her long rifle gleaming with a faint blue glow as she chambered another round. Her precision was unmatched as another mercenary collapsed, a bullet puncturing his shoulder and instantly cauterizing the wound. Each shot from Caitlyn’s rifle brought chaos to the enemy ranks—armor, shields, and cover were meaningless against the piercing power of her hex-tech ammunition.
The battlefield momentarily froze as Mireya and several of her mercenaries turned to locate the shooter. Their eyes locked onto Caitlyn, who stood tall and calm, her aim unwavering. Beside her was Kara, her face grim with determination, gripping a blade in one hand and a pistol in the other.
And then, charging toward the chaos, was Vi.
With her massive hex-powered gauntlets glowing faintly, Vi stormed forward with unwavering confidence. Bullets ricocheted off her gauntlets as she blocked the incoming fire with calculated movements, her march unrelenting.
"That’s the best you’ve got?" Vi taunted, her voice carrying over the din of battle. She picked up speed, her movements a blur of power and ferocity, until she leaped into the fray.
As Vi landed, her gauntlet slammed into the ground with thunderous force, sending a shockwave rippling through the square. Several mercenaries were knocked off their feet, their weapons flying from their hands. The force of the impact sent tremors up Mireya’s spine as she stumbled back, her eyes wide with alarm.
Mireya’s jaw tightened as she recognized Caitlyn, Vi, and Kara. Her hand instinctively gripped the hilt of her dagger, her knuckles white with tension. A cold wave of dread prickled at the back of her neck, and for the first time, a crack appeared in her carefully controlled demeanor. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The weight of the moment pressed down on her shoulders. Her frustration gave way to a pulse of genuine fear, though she masked it behind a sharp glare and commanding bark.
“Hold your positions!” she snarled, the dagger trembling slightly in her grasp. “Do not let them gain another inch!”
Leader of the converted Demacian soldiers stepped closer, his face pale and voice unsteady. He cast a nervous glance at the chaos around them: Caitlyn’s precise shots ripping through their ranks, Vi charging through bullets like a force of nature, and the revolutionaries, relentless despite their injuries, fighting as though the city’s soul depended on it.
“This… this is your plan? To hold this square?” he asked, his voice tight with disbelief.
Mireya turned on him, her dagger rising instinctively, its sharp edge glinting in the dim light. Her wild eyes burned into his, her words sharp and venomous. “The plan,” she spat, “is to make Kalstead burn. To make them suffer.” Her voice dropped to a bitter murmur. “I promised him this city would fall. And it will.”
The soldier flinched but pressed on, desperation creeping into his tone. “This is chaos! They’re turning the tide, and those explosions… Mireya, we’re losing control!”
“Control?” she echoed, her voice trembling with suppressed fury. She stepped closer, her dagger mere inches from his chest. “Control was never part of this. This is war. This is vengeance. I don’t care if the ground beneath us collapses. This city burns.”
The soldier stared at her, his expression frozen between shock and disgust. “You brought us here to die,” he muttered, almost to himself.
Before Mireya could answer, the ground trembled violently, cutting her off. A new series of explosions rocked the city, sending shockwaves through the square. Flames erupted in multiple directions, casting an eerie glow over the chaos. Debris rained down, and the air filled with the acrid scent of smoke and fire.
The battlefield dissolved into complete disarray. Screams rang out as combatants and civilians alike were thrown off balance. The townspeople fleeing toward the docks stumbled, their terrified cries echoing against the roaring inferno consuming their home.
The converted soldier staggered, shielding his face as a nearby building collapsed in a fiery blaze. He turned back to Mireya, his voice rising above the chaos. “This isn’t war! This is madness!”
Mireya stood still amidst the chaos, her gaze locked on the flames consuming the horizon. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her dagger until her knuckles turned white. For the first time, a flicker of doubt crossed her face, only to be buried beneath a bitter, trembling smile.
“Madness?” she whispered, the word almost drowned by the cacophony around her. “No. This is justice.”
Another explosion roared nearby, throwing a shower of sparks into the air. The leader stumbled back, his panic growing. “And when this is done, what then? There’s no way out, Mireya!”
Mireya’s lips curled into a grim smirk, though her eyes betrayed the storm of emotions raging within her. “There was never a way out,” she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of despair. “This city burns, and so do we. That’s the price of revenge.”
Another deafening blast tore through the square, this time closer than before. Mireya barely flinched, standing rigid as the ground beneath her feet seemed to tremble in agreement.