Blood on the Horizon
The festival’s music and laughter halted abruptly as the distant wail of the siren pierced the air. People froze in place, their joyous expressions replaced by fear. Families clutched their loved ones, their eyes darting toward the horizon as the tension spread like wildfire.
Jarvan IV appeared, his armor glimmering in the moonlight. He raised his hand, his voice firm and commanding. “Remain calm!”
The crowd hesitated, torn between their fear and their trust in the prince. Vi and Caitlyn, and Maya pushed through the throng to reach him, urgency in their movements.
“What’s going on?” Vi asked, her voice sharp as her eyes searched Jarvan’s face.
Jarvan glanced at the restless crowd before motioning them to follow him. “Not here. Come with me.”
They retreated to a nearby command post, where Jarvan handed Caitlyn a letter. “This arrived an hour ago,” he said grimly.
Caitlyn scanned the message, her face hardening. She read Swain’s message aloud so that everyone could hear.
Vi’s fists clenched, the steel of her gauntlets groaning under the pressure. “He thinks we’ll just pack up and run?”
Maya’s jaw tightened. “He underestimates us.”
Jarvan nodded solemnly. “He’s betting on fear. We can’t let him be right.” He turned to the group. “The people must be prepared, but they can’t know the full truth yet. We’ll protect them without sending them into panic.”
The decision was swift. The elderly and children were quietly evacuated to Ravenhurst under the cover of darkness, accompanied by Demacian soldiers, and Maya went with them as an over looker. For those who remained, the festival became a coordinated effort to prepare Kalstead for war.
The docks became a hive of activity. Soldiers unloaded supplies while Kalsteadian revolutionaries and Demacian engineers worked side by side to mount anti-ship artillery and reinforce the town’s defenses. Farmers, blacksmiths, and merchants joined the effort, their hands rough but steady as they prepared weapons and barricades.
In a few hours, the square had transformed into a war camp. The festival’s colorful decorations now served as cover for makeshift barricades, and the scent of roasted food was replaced by the sharp tang of metal and oil.
Ekko sat on a crate near the edge of the encampment, holding a tin of white paint in one hand and a brush in the other. His movements were deliberate, yet hesitant, as he began tracing the familiar markings on his face. Each stroke carried the weight of memories—his Firelight family, the battles they fought, and the ones they lost.
He glanced at the reflection in the blade of a discarded shield, his hand faltering.
“Need some help with that?”
Ekko turned to see Powder standing behind him, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. Her hair was tied back, and her sleeves were rolled up, revealing hands smudged with grease and soot.
“I got it,” he said, his voice tinged with stubbornness.
Powder crouched beside him, her eyes narrowing as she studied his half-finished work. “Sure you do. That’s why the line on your cheek is crooked.”
He sighed, setting the brush down. “Fine. Knock yourself out.”
Powder grabbed the brush, dipping it into the paint with a steady hand. She knelt in front of him, tilting his chin up gently.
“Hold still,” she instructed, her tone softer now.
Ekko obeyed, his eyes meeting hers for a fleeting moment before closing. Powder began painting with precision, her strokes confident and fluid. The white markings took shape, matching the intricate patterns that had become a symbol of Ekko’s leadership and resolve.
“You’ve done this before,” he murmured.
“Yeah,” she replied quietly. “Jinx used to mess up everything she touched. But Powder? She’s good with details.”
Her voice wavered, but her hands remained steady. Ekko opened his eyes slightly, watching her as she worked. The faint flicker of vulnerability in her expression struck a chord deep within him.
“There,” she said after a moment, setting the brush aside. “Now you look like someone who can kick Swain’s ass.”
Ekko grinned, touching the dried paint on his face. “You think this makes me look tougher?”
“Way tougher,” she teased, rising to her feet and extending a hand to help him up. “Besides, you’ve got me. What’s tougher than that?”
He chuckled, accepting her hand and standing. “Fair point.”
Under the glow of moonlight and the artificial brilliance of scattered floodlights, the defenders of Kalstead gathered near the docks. The hum of machinery mingled with the distant crash of waves, and the faint hum of electric lights illuminated the rows of resolute faces. The festival grounds, now a makeshift war zone, were littered with crates of ammunition, stacks of improvised barricades, and weaponry glinting under the scattered glow of lanterns and hextech lamps.
The sea stretched endlessly before them, shimmering under the moonlight. On the horizon, dark silhouettes emerged—massive shapes that grew steadily larger. The Noxian fleet. Its crimson sails caught the wind, banners emblazoned with the raven insignia fluttering in silent menace.
Demacian soldiers stood at the forefront, their armor polished to a gleam, reflecting the artificial lights like a second layer of radiance. Behind them stood the revolutionaries of Kalstead, a patchwork of fighters armed with everything from rifles to blunt weapons forged in workshops. Each of their faces told a story: fear, determination, defiance. Farmers, merchants, and laborers had laid down their tools to take up arms, unwilling to let their home fall.
Near the docks, Jarvan IV moved among them. His armor gleamed under the floodlights, but it was his presence that carried weight. His voice, low but resolute, reached those nearby as he offered a steadying hand or a quiet word. Beside him, Garen stood like a sentinel, his massive blade resting against his shoulder. Quinn flitted between vantage points, her hawk Valor soaring high above as her sharp eyes scanned the growing fleet.
Vi leaned against a barricade, her hextech gauntlets sparking faintly as she flexed her fingers, the soft blue glow from their cores casting eerie reflections in her intense gaze. Her posture was relaxed but alert, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered in the air. Caitlyn knelt beside her, methodically adjusting the scope on her rifle, her sharp eyes scanning the horizon, ever-watchful.
A short distance away, Powder crouched, surrounded by an array of explosives and gadgets she’d meticulously crafted. Her hands moved with practiced speed, adjusting the fuses and carefully packing away her tools. Every so often, her eyes darted nervously to the horizon, to the ships that seemed to grow larger with each passing minute, but the thrill of preparation kept her mind sharp. Ekko sat nearby, his metal pipe resting against his knees, though his hoverboard was propped beside him.
Beside them, Warwick stood, his massive form looming like a dark sentinel. His eyes glowed softly, ever-watchful, scanning the surroundings with a constant, protective presence. He was always closest to Vi and Powder, his loyalty unwavering.
Powder gave Warwick a quick glance, her gaze softening. She didn’t need to say anything; the bond they shared was enough. She returned to her work, checking her devices one last time. Meanwhile, Warwick remained still, poised for action, as his eyes flicked between Vi and Powder, ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice.
Rengar stood a short distance away, his sharp eyes gleaming in the shadows. He was like a shadow in the night, a deadly predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His massive form blended with the dark backdrop, his body tense and ready. He was here to fight, and nothing would distract him from that.
The distant hum of the Noxian war drums grew louder, reverberating through the air, announcing the inevitable. The ships on the horizon were unmistakably closing in, their dark silhouettes becoming clearer with every passing moment.
The Noxian fleet loomed ominously on the horizon, their black sails a stark contrast against the dark expanse of the sea. The ships were still just out of range of the heavy artillery positioned along the docks, their massive forms a clear threat on the calm waters. The silence was broken only by the distant rumble of war drums and the occasional creak of the ships, their masts swaying gently in the cool night breeze.
Suddenly, a small boat was lowered from the lead ship, a sleek craft cutting through the water as it made its way toward the docks. In the front of the boat stood a tall figure, unmistakable even from a distance: Swain, his regal attire fluttering slightly in the wind, his face set in an expression of controlled calm. A few soldiers flanked him, their dark armor gleaming under the moonlight, their presence cold and foreboding.
The boat came closer, cutting through the water with eerie precision until it reached the dock, the low thrum of the water below the only sound as it came to a stop. Swain’s eyes locked onto the gathered defenders of Kalstead, and a chill swept over the crowd as his sharp gaze seemed to pierce through them. The silence stretched taut as he stood at the front of the boat, surveying those who had gathered for battle.
"Demacia," he called out, his voice booming across the docks, carrying with it the weight of authority. "You stand on the brink of a grave mistake. I offer you a final warning. Leave Kalstead now, and spare yourselves from unnecessary bloodshed. I am a man of peace, but I will not hesitate to destroy anyone who refuses to see reason."
His voice was smooth, almost persuasive, but there was a sharp edge to it that sent ripples of unease through those listening. The words were meant to disarm, to make them question their resolve, but it was the threat behind them that held everyone in place. He paused for a moment, letting his words settle, and then continued, his tone deepening, darker.
“You would be wise to listen to me. I have no desire for a prolonged conflict. It is not the blood of men I seek, but the future of this world. I will not let you stand in my way.” His eyes swept over the gathered forces, locking onto each one with calculated malice. “You have no chance. Do not make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”
A murmur spread through the defenders, but it was Jarvan IV who stepped forward, his jaw set firm, his presence strong in the face of Swain’s intimidation. His voice rang out across the dock, steady and resolute. “Kalstead will not bow to your threats, Swain. We will stand and fight for our home.”
Swain’s lips curled into a faint, mocking smile. "Ah, the boy speaks," he said, his voice dripping with derision. "Do you truly think your words carry any weight? You are a child playing at war, leading these people to their deaths." His gaze lingered on Jarvan, dismissive, condescending, as though he were nothing more than a fleeting inconvenience.
Jarvan’s eyes hardened at the insult, but he held his ground, refusing to let Swain’s words break his resolve.
Swain chuckled darkly, the sound echoing across the water. “I give you this one last chance to turn back. It will be the only one you get. Make no mistake; I will not be merciful.”
Swain's boat began to turn, the dark silhouette of the lead ship looming in the distance behind him. The tension in the air was suffocating, and the defenders of Kalstead held their breath, waiting for any sign of movement. Swain's retreating figure seemed almost too calm, as if the outcome was already decided in his favor.
Jarvan IV stood tall, his voice cutting through the thick silence that had settled over the docks. “We do not retreat,” he declared, his words carrying the weight of every soldier and defender standing beside him. “Kalstead will not bow to your threats, Swain. We stand firm, and we fight for our home!”
A roar of agreement erupted from the crowd, their voices united in defiance. Soldiers, revolutionaries, and even the civilians who had taken up arms shouted in unison, their battle cries rising like a storm over the water. “For Kalstead!” they yelled, their determination echoing in the night air.
Swain paused, his back still to them, but the muscles in his shoulders tensed. He could feel the wave of resistance rising, the defiance that echoed in the air. Slowly, he turned his head back toward the docks, his face a mask of cold, calculated rage.
His eyes narrowed, a twisted smile curling at the corner of his lips. “You think this is courage?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do not mistake this for bravery. It is foolishness.”
He turned fully now, his sharp gaze cutting through the crowd of defenders like a knife. “You have chosen your path, then,” Swain's voice rang out, louder this time, imbued with a dark finality. “Do not say I did not warn you.”
With that, he gestured toward the water, and his voice dropped into a low, menacing whisper, only just audible across the distance. “Prepare to face the consequences of your defiance.”
But then, the calm of the night was shattered by an unnatural sound. The water around the docks began to ripple, small bubbles rising to the surface with an eerie, rhythmic pattern. The atmosphere grew colder, the air thick with an oppressive, unnatural weight.
And then, the first monstrous shape broke through the surface of the water.
It emerged slowly at first, a massive, writhing creature with too many limbs, its skin a slick, pale gray that glistened unnaturally in the moonlight. Its eyes, if they could be called eyes, were bulbous and unblinking, glowing with an unsettling light. The creature's mouth opened in a grotesque, widening grin, revealing rows of sharp, jagged teeth that gleamed in the dim light.
Then, more appeared. Hundreds of them.
The creatures clawed their way out of the water, their grotesque forms twisting and slithering in unnatural ways. Some had too many legs, others had long, dripping tendrils that lashed the air in a frenzy. Their bodies were slick and unnatural, as though they were not meant to exist in this world. Some had long, pointed fins protruding from their backs, while others had skin that seemed to shift and change, as if the very surface of their forms could not settle.
The cold, biting air grew even more chilling as they slowly crept onto the docks, their eerie, slithering movements making the hairs on the back of one’s neck stand on end. Their bodies, slick and alien, were an assault on the senses, each step they took leaving a trail of slime and twisted footprints.
The defenders froze in shock, momentarily paralyzed by the horrifying sight before them.
The air was thick with the sound of their grotesque whispers, the scraping of claws on wood, and the soft, guttural growls that escaped their throats. A wave of terror swept through the ranks as the monsters slowly filled the docks, their numbers growing by the second, their presence overwhelming.