.
.
—Irelia Pov—
Command Tent.
After we arrived, the tide seemed to turn in our favor. They hadn't expected us so soon.
But it didn't last.
Our people aren't soldiers—most are farmers. And the Noxian army, led by General Swain, was always one step ahead.
He turned our reinforcements into a weakness. He stopped our advance before it even began.
SMACK — My fist hit the table.
"We can win this."
I looked into the eyes of our unit captains.
"We know the terrain. He won't see it coming."
My voice held firm—even if a part of me wanted to doubt.
.
Next morning
We marched with force.
A hidden trail. Fog and shadow cloaked our movement. For a moment, confidence returned. We believed they hadn't seen us coming.
But they always know how to close the gates.
From the top of the hill, their formations emerged like they'd been waiting. Within minutes, they took our retreat.
Arrows rained.
I led the units back—forced a path through.
We lost.
Again.
.
That night
I couldn't sleep.
I wandered between the trees until the camp was gone from earshot. Found a curved trunk and sat.
I stared into the nothing.
"I had promised hope..."
. . .
Days later.
We tried again.
Same strategy. Same resolve.
He didn't fall.
More died.
.
At camp.
One of the younger fighters had stitched my family's crest into her scarf. She thought it would inspire morale. I nearly told her to remove it.
A comment pulled me out of thoughs:
"You can't carry all of this alone, Irelia," said Liana, resting her head on my shoulder—dirt and blood smeared across her skin. She forced a smile. "You're not fighting alone."
I forced one back.
"I know. Don't worry."
Hours later, alone, I washed the blood from my hands. I saw my reflection in the metal basin.
A worn face, trying to be a commander.
.
The Last Chance.
Everyone knew. No more retreat.
The losses were too great to carry this war any further.
The forest had been flattened—soft soil, shattered roots. What remained was a sloping plain, damp and open. Perfect ground for Swain's missiles and heavy infantry.
We took position at the base of the rise. They waited above.
I split the light divisions to the left flank. We raised shields at the front. I stayed at the rear with what was left of our reserves. The plan was simple: speed and pressure.
And for a while, it worked.
Then came the trap.
The circle closed.
They were already behind us.
The formations cracked. Morale dropped like stones in a river. I shouted commands—but doubt had already crept into my voice.
Everything unraveled.
My body moved. My will didn't. Every command echoed hollow. Each call, each step, felt weightless—like I was floating just behind my own actions, watching them crumble.
Then I saw it.
On the arm of a Noxian soldier ahead—unkempt, tied like a trophy—
A scrap of blue cloth, stained with mud.
The crest of my house.
My breath stopped.
The mud felt still. My eyes didn't blink. Even the arrows seemed to wait.
I remembered.
This isn't for glory. Not only for Ionia.
It was for what they stole.
My family.
My house.
My people.
My land.
My hand closed into a fist, and I rose.
This isn't war—
It's revenge.
—End Pov—
The battle had long since collapsed into chaos when I arrived.
The line was broken. The wounded were strewn across the incline like discarded pieces. Smoke curled off ruined shields and charred grass. The scent of ash and iron clung to the wind like a warning.
I stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the churned soil, Wuju blades flanking me. The Vastaya warriors fanned out without a word, half spirit, half fury. Even they paused—drawn by what unfolded at the hill's crest.
She was alone.
A blur of blades and blood—armored men sliced like wet paper. Bones snapped like dry twigs. One soldier's face split clean through the jaw; another's throat opened so wide it gurgled down his chest.
She moved too fast to follow, lost between arcs of steel and the slap of torn flesh. Limbs spun. Guts spilled in steaming ropes.
Some dropped their weapons before she even reached them. Others turned to run, only to be cut mid-stride—spines showing like snapped branches. A few tried to scream, but never made a sound—her blades crushed ribs and carved lungs before air could form.
"..I was told she was graceful." I let out.
Swain's voice faltered mid-command. His composure cracked—not rage, not fury—fear.
He stepped back. Then another.
And still, she came.
He raised his arm too slow. Too human.
It hit the ground a second before he did.
I didn't flinch. That much, I expected.
But she wasn't done.
She stood over him as he fell to one knee, blood already soaking his cloak. His one remaining eye locked with hers, something ancient and cold flickering behind it.
I watched her lift her blade again.
The battlefield fell silence.
"No mercy," she said—like a prayer, like a sentence.
Then—
The head rolled.
Silence.
Then my mind caught up.
—I didn't react.
Not at first.
Something in me refused to register it. My body stood still, but my thoughts—my thoughts flailed, reaching for a version of reality where that hadn't just happened.
Swain… was dead?
Slain. By her.
Not detained. Not spared. Just—
Ended.
Whitout Swain, Noxus later wouldn't pull their forces, Trifarix wouldn't exist. Much more would be affected.
I blinked once. Then again. My mouth slightly open, breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't a victory.
It was something else entirely.