Arcane: Red Sands

Dorrik's fingers curled into a white-knuckled grip around the iron railing of the garrison's high balcony.

Ambessa was gone, For now.

Her Ship's black-crimson sails vanished beyond the horizon, the last shadow of Ambessa Medarda fading into the morning sun.

And yet, Her presence still remained.

For days, he had watched, waiting for her move.

For days, he had expected her to tighten her grip around his city.

Yet, instead of conquest, she had done something far worse.

She had left.

Why?

Why go to Piltover at this moment?

Dorrik's jaw clenched.

No Noxian general brings an army to a city without purpose.

And Ambessa Medarda?

She was no fool.

Then what does she want?

The thought churned in his mind, seething like a wound left to fester.

Because the answer—the only answer that made sense—

Was that she had already got what she came for.

And he had been too blind to see it.

"You seem agitated...General."

Dorrik didn't flinch.

Didn't turn.

He had expected this.

Or rather, he should have.

From the darkness of the stone archway, a figure stepped forward.

Gadriel.

Or at least—that is the face that thing was wearing.

Dorrik's grip on the railing tightened as the man approached, his cloak barely shifting in the morning breeze.

He had no tells. No movements that were wasted.

Every step was perfectly measured.

Every word, perfectly placed.

And Dorrik hated him for it.

Gadriel came to a stop just beside him—but not too close.

Never too close.

He tilted his head slightly, gaze drifting toward the horizon.

Then, he sighed.

"Nothing is easy when it comes to her."

Dorrik exhaled sharply through his nose.

"She is an opportunist."

"Oh, certainly," Gadriel agreed, almost amused. "But so much more than that."

He, or rather she turned her gaze toward Dorrik now, her golden eyes gleaming like a snake that had just begun to coil.

"She is a woman of wit. Of unrelenting ambition."

A pause.

Then, her voice dropped lower.

"Someone that could become a problem."

Dorrik frowned.

Gadriel's voice dropped to a whisper.

"A rival."

Silence stretched between them, thick as oil over water.

Then, finally—Dorrik spoke.

"My spies have been watching."

Gadriel said nothing.

Dorrik's jaw tightened.

"They saw Captain Su'Rhaal leaving her ship."

A pause.

"They seem… close."

And for the first time, Gadriel laughed.

Not loudly.

Not mockingly.

Just a soft, knowing chuckle.

"Ah, yes…"

Her voice was like silk over glass.

"Su'Rhaal."

Dorrik's frown deepened.

"You knew."

Gadriel hummed. "I suspected."

He stepped forward slightly, gaze flickering back to the sea.

"Ambessa has plans for him. That much is certain."

Dorrik's breath slowed.

"What plans?"

Gadriel sighed, almost as if he pitied him.

"Come now, General."

Then—his voice dropped lower.

"Do you truly believe she would leave this city untouched?"

A pause.

Then—She leaned in slightly.

"No. She has already set her pieces."

A beat.

Then, her lips curled slightly.

"And Su'Rhaal…?"

Her voice was barely above a whisper now.

"He is the one who will move them."

Dorrik exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think.

Think past the anger.

Past the frustration.

"Then we must act now."

The words came before he had fully considered them.

And Gadriel?

He smiled.

"Indeed, General."

Then, smoothly—like a blade slipping between ribs—

"He must not be allowed to aid her."

Dorrik's breath steadied.

Gadriel continued.

"By force, if necessary."

A pause.

Gadriel raised a single pale hand.

And with a whisper of magic, a shape formed above his palm.

A figure.

Half-woman.

Half-serpent.

Her lower body coiled like a viper preparing to strike, her golden eyes gleaming through the phantom image.

And as the vision flickered in the dim torchlight, Gadriel spoke once more.

"She will succeed… where you failed."

Dorrik inhaled slowly.

His fingers clenched at his sides.

Then, finally—he bowed his head.

"What would you have me do?"

Gadriel smiled.

--------------The immortal Bastion, Noxus.--------------------------

The air beneath the Immortal Bastion was thick.

Not with dust.

Not with age.

With power.

A deep, pulsing weight pressed against the ancient corridors, like the heartbeat of something vast and unseen.

Here, beneath the Tri-Towers, the very foundation of Noxus was steeped in secrets, in blood, in things older than the empire itself.

The walls were not built by human hands.

They were carved by something else.

And in this place, beneath the world of men—the true architects of Noxus worked in the dark.

Here, Leblanc walked, after cutting her connection to one of her Clones.

Her boots clicked softly against the polished obsidian floors, their surfaces so smooth they reflected the torchlight like a mirror.

Deep crimson flames flickered in unnatural hues. The air carried the scent of iron and something else… something wrong.

At the far end of the chamber, past an altar of black stone, past a basin of still, dark liquid,

A presence was waiting.

A presence that was already smiling.

"You look troubled, darling."

The voice was like velvet draped over a dagger—smooth, indulgent, yet edged with something cold beneath the warmth.

Leblanc did not look up immediately.

Instead, she came to a stop beside the basin of blood, her gaze lingering on its surface—so dark it reflected nothing.

"I do not get troubled, Vladimir."

She spoke the words evenly.

Controlled.

And Vladimir?

He smirked.

"Ah, but of course."

A pause.

Then—a chuckle.

"And yet, here you are, descending into the depths of the Immortal Bastion, rather than sitting upon your Golden throne."

A flick of his wrist, a careless gesture.

"I wonder… is it because you need something from me?"

His tone was mocking.

Playful.

Because Vladimir knew that no one came here unless they had no other choice.

And Leblanc hated that he knew.

Slowly, she turned.

Vladimir stood across from her, his robes flowing like liquid silk, deep as wine, rich as fresh blood.

His fingers were adorned with rings, each set with a gem of unnatural red, pulsing faintly in the dim light.

His pale face was a mask of amusement.

Elegant. Unbothered.

Like a noble entertaining guests in his court, rather than a monster standing before an altar of sacrifices.

Leblanc held his gaze, unreadable.

Then—she exhaled slowly.

"Su'Rhaal."

The amusement in Vladimir's eyes did not fade.

But something in his posture shifted.

A subtle change.

"Ah," he murmured.

He stepped forward, his fingers trailing over the stone of the basin, disturbing the surface just slightly.

"Now there is a name I did not expect to hear today."

He glanced up at her, smirking.

"Finally taking notice, are we?"

Leblanc's expression did not change.

"Do not play games with me, Vladimir."

Her voice was even.

"You overlooked him, just as I did."

A beat.

Then, smoothly—"And now, we are paying the price."

Leblanc turned her gaze to the far end of the chamber.

There, upon a stone altar, a girl lay motionless.

Her chest rose and fell—but only barely.

Her skin, once rich with life, was now pale as frost, as if the very essence of her being had been drained away.

And on another altar, one behind her—a Ruby.

Not a gem.

A bloodstone.

It pulsed faintly, like a heart that did not entirely belong to her.

Briar.

Leblanc's gaze sharpened.

"She is not stable."

Vladimir sighed.

He stepped toward the girl, brushing his fingers over her wrist, her throat.

Then—he frowned.

"No."

A pause.

Then—he sighed dramatically, running a hand through his long, White hair.

"But she could be."

Leblanc exhaled.

"We need the catalyst."

Vladimir smiled.

"Yes."

He turned now, his robe trailing behind him like a river of crimson silk.

"Such an exquisite specimen."

His gaze lingered on Briar—almost fondly.

"Truly blessed by the miracle of Magic. But her body resists the gift it has been given."

He exhaled.

"A shame, really. Such raw potential. Such an exquisite bond with the bloodRuby… and yet, such fragility."

Then—his gaze sharpened.

"Su'Rhaal is the key to stabilizing her."

Leblanc was silent.

Because she had already known.

Her eyes lingered on the girl's face.

Briar. The failed experiment.

The blade forged too quickly.

But she could still be refined.

Shaped.

And Su'Rhaal?

He was no longer just a soldier.

He was a necessity.

Vladimir moved closer, his voice lowering into something softer, richer.

"But tell me..."

A pause.

Then—he smirked.

"Do you truly believe Su'Rhaal will fall so easily?"

A flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

"He is not like the other Sang'Kalla."

A pause.

"And that makes him unpredictable."

Silence.

Then—Leblanc smiled.

Not warmly.

Not kindly.

But like a queen who had already won the game before the pieces had been placed on the board.

"It does not matter."

Her voice was absolute.

"Because he will have no choice."

She turned slightly, glancing back toward the crimson torches that lined the chamber walls.

Then—she spoke once more.

"I will send reinforcements to Bel'zhun."

A pause.

Then—her eyes gleamed.

"Cassiopeia is still on the continent."

Her lips curled slightly.

"She will go to the city… and deal with our problem."

Vladimir chuckled softly.

And in the flickering bloodlight, his smile was a thing of hunger and delight.

"Oh… this will be fun."