THE BLACK ROSE EXPLAINED

“I don’t understand,” General Granth mutters, nervously trying to smother the light from his lamp. “There’s nothing here. It’s a dead end.”

He stands at the threshold, framed by the dark stonework against the deeper darkness beyond it. He does not see the open gateway before him, nor the angular Ochnun inscriptions that surround it. He does not see the fragments of bone that litter the flagstones beneath his boots.

I smile, playing my part. “It is the simplest of things,” I tell him, “to hide in plain sight.”

The general turns, confusion and frustration written clearly upon his face. “Don’t play games with me, cousin! Do you have any idea what I’m risking, being down here? Or what would happen if we’re caught? These districts are forbidden, by order of the council—there are Legion patrols everywhere!”

This, at least, is true. Ever since the usurper Swain seized control, he has kept the Immortal Bastion locked down. Officially, it is to protect the Trifarix against reprisals from those noble houses that opposed its creation.

Unofficially, he is daring men like Brannin Granth to expose themselves as his enemies.

“But they would not doubt your loyalty,” I reassure him. “A hero of the Gates of Mourning, no less. You are to be honored by command of the Grand General himself. What can they say to that? If we were spotted, you would not even need to run.”

His expression darkens. “Oh, you don’t run from the Trifarian Legion…”

I do not need to hear this thinly veiled propaganda again. In little more than a year, Swain has built a certain mystique around himself and the Hand of Noxus, and those that serve them both. It is a brilliant scheme, though it fills my heart with hatred to admit it.

Even so, I let Granth have his moment. It is why we are here.

His eyes fall to the ground. “We didn’t win the Gates of Mourning—the Legion did. That’s why Swain won’t attend the triumph. He knows we need not even have been there, damn him. He insults us with this pomp and ceremony, in front of all Noxus!”

I nod, laying a hand on Granth’s shoulder. “And that is why we will make him pay for everything he has done. You are a true Noxian, anyone can see that. I have told the others all about you, and they wish to meet you for themselves. She wishes to meet you.”

“I can’t meet anyone, cousin, if we can’t get inside.” He glances around. “Doesn’t the Black Ro—”

I recoil. “Do not use that name. It makes you sound like… well, as you said. Like you don’t understand.”

Pushing past him, I stride through the yawning mouth of the gate. He almost drops the lantern in surprise, seeing the entrance now, for the first time. Stumbling after me, Granth checks to make sure we are not being followed, then squints into the shadows of the passageway.

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“Is it true?” he hisses. “What they say about her, is it true?”

I do not slow my pace. “Come. Find out for yourself.”

The Immortal Bastion is not a monument, as most Noxians believe. Nor is it merely a fortress, in the sense that the old tribes knew it.

The stone around us almost thrums with power, though Granth is mostly oblivious. I have seen it countless times, through the centuries—he knows something is not right, but feels it only as a lethargic drag on his limbs, and a whispering itch in the back of his brain. Few mortals last long when they are this close to the source. To his credit, he still has his wits about him, enough to reach for his dagger when a robed figure emerges from the gloom.

…I pass both of us, coming in the other direction. I look tired.

No matter. This will be concluded soon enough.

Granth eyes me suspiciously until I disappear from sight, then ambles to the side of the person he knows as his cousin.

“Hadrion, who are these people?” Granth asks, as more anonymous figures come and go. “I don’t recognize any of them. Are they the allies you spoke of, among the other houses?”

I sigh. It is disappointing that the finest military minds often cannot see what is right in front of them. “They are sympathetic to our family’s plight,” I reply, keeping the disdain from my voice. “We, all of us, are committed to the downfall of the usurper, and the restoration of the throne. It is better that you do not know their names, or their faces.”

He scoffs. “But how can we work together, if we—”

The words die on his lips as we turn the last corner.

We stand at the edge of the great well of souls, plunging down into the bedrock of Noxus, far deeper than the physical dimensions of the Bastion should even allow. A roiling miasma of cold blues and jealous greens swirls in the distance beneath us, underlighting the three bridges that span the gap.

There, between them, suspended against the madness, is a frightful, hulking silhouette that every Noxian knows only too well. A husk of lifeless armor depicted in every history book, and a thousand defaced statues scattered across the old city.

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Granth takes half a step back. “It can't be…” he murmurs. “It… It can't…”

His voice is cracking. His eyes glisten with tears. I lean in over his shoulder, to whisper behind his ear.

“Do you see the truth of it, now? The truth behind the great empire of Noxus? So has it been for centuries, since the days of the first kings—no Grand General, no emperor or tyrant, can stand unless the mistress of the Immortal Bastion allows it. Many are those who would serve, though few prove worthy.”

I gently pluck the lantern from his trembling fingers, and guide him away from the sight that has so transfixed him, toward the veiled alcoves that line the passage on either side.

“Swain must fall. Our cabal is utterly committed to this, above all else, and we will sacrifice whatever we must to achieve it.”

On some level, Granth knows what he will see even before I pull back the shroud.

It is the dessicated body of his cousin, Hadrion. The younger man’s features are frozen in a deathly rictus, yet there is an unmistakable sense of peace about it.

“Your house was singled out most unfairly during the coup, Brannin Granth. Your father and his brothers were stripped of all they possessed, simply for remaining true to Boram Darkwill at the end. Hadrion gave his life gladly in pursuit of revenge. Will you honor that debt, and join us now, too?”

Granth sinks to his knees, looking up at me with fresh eyes. “You. You are her. You are the pale woman.”

He does not even flinch when a second pale woman appears at my side. We speak with the same voice. “I am everywhere. I am everyone. You know only what you need to know, and see what I want you to see.”

Jericho Swain is not the only one who can exaggerate his own legend.

A third pale woman steps out behind Granth, and then a fourth. Even so, he bows his head to me, no doubt convinced he finally understands. He does not need us to point out the empty alcove beside his cousin’s.

“With all my heart,” he swears, “and every drop of my noble blood, I will serve you, my lady. I will not rest until the pretender Swain is dead.”

This naive fool thinks he will be the one to land the killing blow. I will let him think that, for it suits my purpose, which is merely to probe the Grand General’s defenses.

I trace the sigil of the cabal in the air above Granth’s head, marking him as my own. None who can see it will interfere with the plots we shall soon devise. “Rise then, proud son of the Noxii. Your pledge is heard and accepted. Together, we will be victorious, and your name will be celebrated as the savior of an empire.”

Remarkably, the general has not cried out in pain even once.

The apothecaries and healers still fear he will lose the arm. True Ice almost always means death to mortals, yet Darius has borne these unimaginable agonies through gritted teeth and a torrent of florid curses directed at everyone in the camp. Hunched upon a pallet of furs, he is as close to the roaring hearth as we dare put him, sheened with feverish sweat.

Curiously, the Freljordian priests have offered little counsel. They were only too happy to accompany our warhost when we entered the northlands as “guests of the Frostguard,” so many months ago. Though their battleplate marks them as warriors and not ambassadors, they advised us on safe marching routes, and customs of the troll tribes that we might exploit during our campaign. Now, the three of them remain huddled in whispered conference, casting furtive glances at the general and those attending him.

The most senior Frost Priest, the graying veteran Hjolfr, turns his one-eyed gaze to me.

He sees what the others see, what anyone would see—a lowly blade-squire, plain and unremarkable.

For a moment, he falters, as if trying to peer through an icy ocean gale, fingers hovering over the axe at his hip. My lesser sisters may struggle to maintain illusion under such scrutiny, yet to me it is as simple as breathing.

I send the thought, cleanly and subtly.

Nothing is amiss.

Hjolfr’s eye narrows. Then he returns to his brethren and their secretive debate.

Feigning intent to refill the general’s water cup, I rise and head for the tent’s doorway. I will discard this appearance, and when we break camp I will find another.

None will note the absence of the young blade-squire, or recall his name. Few will remember he was ever here.

Lord Vladimir is not one to linger out in the morning’s light, at least not without good reason. By the rosy tint of his cheek, I would guess his night was spent incognito in some decadent salon of the noble houses—likely hosted by that buffoon Edvin Cortain, or one of the Noradis.

With his hood drawn up, Vladimir crosses the marketplace, keeping a wary eye upon the towers at the Immortal Bastion’s center.

Oh. Oh my. Is he attempting to be stealthy? Adorable.

Nonetheless, I will not make the mistake that so many of my lesser sisters have, by underestimating the hemomancer and his… abilities. I keep a good distance between us, turning my stolen face to the nearest merchant’s wares whenever he looks back.

Where are you going, Vlad?

And who, I wonder, is worth such “secrecy”...?

The bells ring out over Fae’lor.

The occupation of Ionia is over, by order of our new Grand General. Noxus is leaving.

A curse upon the name of Jericho Swain! We should have ended him when we had the chance, yet my lesser sisters deemed him no further threat to our enterprises…

A curse on them, too.

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Wearing the guise of a grizzled adjutant half-out of uniform, I hurry along the fortress battlement to the oceanward keep.

Through the gate. A curt salute to three naval officers clutching a war’s worth of cartography between them, coming in the other direction. I recognize one—captain of the Emberdrake—though she pays me no heed.

I turn the corner and assume her visage. To the men frantically crating the High Command archives, I am merely the captain returning on some newly remembered errand. The barked threat of a public flogging, and one of them unlocks the heavy doors leading to the lower vaults.

Down. Left.

Toward the Dael’eh Ahira, the Dreaming Pool of Fae’lor.

With Noxian forces withdrawing in haste from the First Lands, this may be my last opportunity to—

No matter. In the tunnel’s gloom, another of my sisters stands over the body of a warmason, a dagger between his shoulders. I raise my hand, tracing an arcane sigil, which she returns with the appropriate shibboleth.

Satisfied, I return to the surface, and the warship berth that awaits me.

The tranquility of the royal gardens is renowned throughout Demacia. Whatever transpires beyond these high walls might as well be a thousand miles away, for it does not interrupt the gentle swaying of the trees, nor the sweet morning chorus of birdsong.

I kneel upon a grimy cushion, dragging my trowel between the rose bushes in a pantomime of gardening as I watch the Seneschal pace the gravel path, hands clasped gently behind his back.

No one ever questions my presence here. Why would they? It is inconceivable that any intruder would make it this far within the palace grounds unchallenged—and in the presence of the great Seneschal himself, no less. He is a creature of habit, rising an hour before dawn and the commencement of his daily duties. I wonder, does he gaze east in anticipation of the sunrise, or in memory of his distant homeland?

He smiles at me as he passes, bowing his head. Any of my lesser sisters might be disarmed by the genuine warmth he shows even to an anonymous old servant, but I am made of sterner stuff.

Then he pauses, quite unexpectedly, beneath the resplendent boughs of a nearby silverbirch, before stooping to pluck something up from the earth.

A seed. A single seed.

He regards it for a long moment, before slipping it into a pocket and continuing on his way.

The chamber walls ripple with a thousand glyphs, boiling and melting into one another. Here, at the heart of my false empire, I will divine the path forward.

My lesser sisters are scattered throughout the countless nations and kingdoms of this world, at any given moment engaged in schemes and machinations without number, each sincerely believing they alone are the one true LeBlanc.

I suppose I should ask myself, then, what do I believe?

No matter. I am everywhere.

And I am everyone.

Rell thought about the Null often.

She didn’t want to, of course. But the thoughts were intrusive and the road was long, and most of the time there wasn’t much to do besides drift back into those unhappy memories as she rode her shifting metal steed from one rumor to the next. Hours and hours of silence, and then, always, killing.

This time, she was far in the outskirts of Noxian territory, following whispers of another Null child being secreted over the border.

“Null.” Rell winced. Even the shape of that word hurt, and she silently swore to herself as she braced against nothing, shaking off the weight of it. Then the pain turned to anger. Then the anger turned to rage.

Noxus had made the Null—and made her. And now, in their immeasurable cowardice, the Noxians couldn’t bear to look. Better to take the Null far, far away, so Noxus could go back to being glorious.

Rell hated this ugly country, filled with its stupid, ugly people. She hated its bleak, strip-mined mountains, their ore gobbled up in Boram Darkwill’s foreign wars. She hated its cracked, rotten soil, used up for ration crops and then left exposed to the wind. Now the only thing that grew anywhere was the green-brown moss that seemed to cake every inch of uninhabited land, populated mostly by carnivorous lizards the size of a house.

What a hideous, naïve place, she thought. So obsessed with its meritocracies, so consumed by constant expansion, that it could not and would not see what it had already become. The Black Rose and their experiments were just a symptom of its deeper sickness. Rell would tear it all down—she’d save the Null, then destroy the Empire brick by brick, even if she had to do it alone. Just like she’d ripped apart the academy.

Then the boulder hit her, and for just a moment, everything was quiet.

Rell had not known many of her classmates long. Most of the promising ones had been forced to fight her in “exhibition matches” to “test her strength”. She didn’t realize until much, much later that whatever shape they were in after, the instructors whisked them away, extracting their magic with essence-absorbing, stone-like sigils and leaving them Null forever.

She remembered some of the kids, but the rest were a pastiche of faces punctuated by extreme pain, from the fights themselves, to the horrific, hours-long sigil grafting process that gave their power to her.

The other students very quickly grew to fear her—hate her, even... and in that way, Rell was always alone.

All save for one.

Gabriel was a boy whose soft eyes and kind voice were not a product of Noxus, but some other far-flung locale that Rell could only scarcely imagine. He understood Rell and had an odd magic that allowed him to shape dirt into tiny fauna—the animals and birds of his homeland, dancing and playing for Rell’s amusement. Though he seemed sad to be so far from his family, the two found comfort in each other’s friendship—Gabriel spending many of his nights comforting Rell as she recovered from the academy’s abuse.

It was simply a matter of time before they would face one another in combat, and while Rell seemed hopeful, Gabriel knew what was coming. Yet for a while, at least, the two could pretend.

Rell awoke to the din of a warband that cautiously approached her, checking if she was dead.

Unfortunately for them, she was not.

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Rell rose with the shattered metal plates of her steed, her titanic lance finding her hand as raw, molten ore poured upward from the ground and into the monstrous weapon. Her mount reformed, pulsating with the heat of a thousand furnaces. Raw iron contorted into shape, seizing itself into the jagged silhouette of a stallion, and Rell leapt upon its back.

She counted five opponents, including a minotaur perched on a pile of large, jagged stones—probably the same kind that hit her—and then one more. A thin man in a dusty white coat clumsily tried to escape across the vast nothing of Noxian wilderness.

Instructor Lukas. The man who’d brought Gabriel to the academy, and the man who took him away.

Though Rell would fight anyone who stood in her path, she had a special rule for her old instructors: no questions asked, and no answers given. She wouldn’t make an exception for this one.

Rell’s stallion charged forward as if it had escaped a dark, distant nightmare, and like the hammer of a scorned god, Rell’s lance slammed into the first soldier who stepped in her way. It was a weapon not made for piercing, but for crushing, and as the soldier’s eyes widened in horror, the last thing that went through his mind was his helmet.

A second fighter attempted to impale Rell’s mount, but her spear snapped between its steaming plates, and Rell swatted her far into the distance—a deformed lump of scrap metal and flesh landing several yards away.

Two crossbowmen, now much less confident than before, tried to beat a hasty retreat. Rell leapt into the air, her steed itself forming around her into a thick suit of impenetrable black armor, and she brought herself down upon them as the earth ripped open beneath her boundless rage.

The minotaur’s rocks may have worked in a sortie, but even his great hunks of volcanic stone shattered against Rell’s armor as she slowly marched toward him. A dark knight, utterly unstoppable, who felled the great creature with a single blow.

She turned her attention to her old instructor.

Lukas felt the gentle pull of his former student, before chunks of superheated slag ripped him from the mossy dirt and into a whirlwind of jagged debris surrounding Rell. It was a storm of metal, heat, and hatred, and all he could whimper before the end was a panicked “Gabriel’s at the camp!” Rell crushed Lukas instantly, his broken form pounded so deeply into the ground that even the basilisks would have trouble digging out his corpse.

Then the storm stopped, the slag fell away, and everything was quiet once more.

True to the instructor’s last words, Gabriel was concealed in a tent within a grassy ravine where the ground had given way and created a wide, shallow indentation in the land. The perfect place to hide a camp.

He was dead long before Rell found him. Malnutrition.

Nullification didn’t just steal the magic of its intended victim—it sundered their soul apart, leaving a glassy-eyed husk that didn’t want anything, barely spoke, couldn’t remember, and never dreamed. A small handful had to be fed, but some Rose-aligned warbands simply chose to neglect this task out of resentment for the job.

Rell looked at Gabriel... at the form wrapped in canvas who once made tiny animals leap from the ground to make her laugh when she was in pain. Digging her lance into the earth, she forced its dark metal out of her hand, then upward, then around him until his body was covered. A simple grave to mark her friend’s passing, but an indestructible one decorated with crude animals forever frozen in steel.

She closed her eyes as she rode off, trying to remember Gabriel as he once was, but all Rell could see were the basilisks feasting on the dead, and her fist closing around a pale woman’s throat.