Arcane: Red Sands

-----5 Years Ago – The Du Couteau Estate, Urzeris-----

Cassiopeia sat perfectly still.

The room was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of Shuriman oil lamps, their golden light casting long, twisting shadows across the marble floor.

Across from her, seated with poised grace, was her mother, Soreana Du Couteau.

There was no warmth between them—only expectation.

"Again."

Cassiopeia swallowed, gripping the thin, curved dagger in her hand.

On the table between them, a small bird lay motionless—its wings bound, its chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

Soreana watched her daughter carefully.

"A soldier will stab with strength. A butcher will cut for efficiency. But a ruler?"

Her lips curled. "A ruler kills with precision."

Cassiopeia exhaled slowly.

Her pulse was steady.

She lowered the blade—just enough to pierce where the ribs met.

A single thrust.

The bird twitched, then fell still.

Soreana observed for a moment before nodding. "Good."

Cassiopeia's fingers tightened around the dagger.

"Why must I do this?" she asked, voice carefully measured.

Soreana sighed, reaching forward, wiping the blood from Cassiopeia's hands with a silk cloth.

"Because power is delicate, my love."

She traced the cloth over Cassiopeia's palm, watching the way the red smudged against her pale skin.

"A ruler does not fight like a soldier. She does not struggle. She does not flail."

She lifted Cassiopeia's chin with a single finger.

"A ruler takes."

Cassiopeia met her mother's gaze.

She had always known this.

She had always known what was expected of her.

But knowing and doing were different things.

Soreana let the silence stretch between them before she leaned forward.

"People are like birds, my love."

She pressed the dagger back into Cassiopeia's grip.

"You let them fly until you no longer have need of them. Then?"

Cassiopeia turned the blade between her fingers.

"You clip their wings."

Soreana smiled.

"That's my girl."

---

The screams came at midnight.

Cassiopeia had been asleep when the first shouts echoed through the halls.

Then—a crash.

A body hitting the floor.

Then another.

By the time she reached her mother's chamber, the door had been kicked open, the scent of blood thick in the air.

Soreana lay on the floor, her robes soaked in crimson, breath ragged.

The assassin—a foreigner, dark-cloaked, masked—stood over her, a curved blade in hand.

He never saw Cassiopeia coming.

She moved without thinking.

The dagger slid into his side, just beneath the ribs—exactly as she had been taught.

The man gasped, stumbled, then fell.

Cassiopeia watched him die.

Then—she dropped the dagger and rushed to her mother's side.

Soreana's lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Blood trickled between her fingers, pooling against the marble.

Cassiopeia pressed her hands over the wound, desperately trying to stop the bleeding.

"I did as you taught me," she whispered. "I killed him. You'll be fine."

Soreana's gaze flickered, unfocused.

Then—a single, sharp exhale.

And she was gone.

Cassiopeia's hands shook.

For the first time in her life, she felt something foreign.

Something that did not belong.

Something like—loss.

She had done everything right.

She had killed with precision.

She had acted without hesitation.

And yet—she had lost.

Her mother's words echoed in her skull.

"A ruler does not fight like a soldier. She does not struggle. She does not flail."

She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palm.

"A ruler takes."

And so, she would.

---

The next day, they buried her mother.

And that night, Cassiopeia hunted down every last assassin responsible.

It took weeks—tracking them, drawing them out.

One by one, they died.

Each with the same single, precise wound.

And when the last body fell, Cassiopeia did not mourn.

She did not feel anything at all.

It was only then that LeBlanc found her.

The woman had been waiting for her in the shadows of the Du Couteau estate, shrouded in violet, her presence cold, unassuming, eternal.

Cassiopeia had known her mother was part of something greater.

But she had never been invited into that world.

Not until now.

LeBlanc studied her carefully.

Then—a knowing smile.

"You killed them all."

It wasn't a question.

Cassiopeia met her gaze. "I did."

A pause.

Then—LeBlanc extended a hand.

"Then it's time to take your place."

Cassiopeia stared at the offered hand.

She had lost everything she had ever known.

But she still had one thing left.

Her mother's last wish.

To rise above.

To take what was hers.

She took the hand.

And in that moment, Cassiopeia Du Couteau was reborn.

---3.5 Years Later , Urzeris-----

Cassiopeia stood on the balcony of the Du Couteau estate, overlooking the sands.

She was alone now.

Her father and sister had long since returned to Noxus.

But she had remained.

Because she had one last thing to do.

Her mother's final oath still lingered in her mind.

"A ruler does not wait for power. She takes it."

And there was no greater power than the one Buried underneath these sands.

She had spent the last year searching, gathering every piece of information, following every rumor.

And finally—she had found it.

The tomb was real.

And within it lay the key to godhood.

There was only one problem.

The key she needed to open it—the Chalikar—had already been claimed.

By a mercenary captain.

By a woman who had no idea what she truly carried.

Cassiopeia's lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"Sivir," she murmured.

She had already decided.

She would get Sivir to take her to the tomb.

And then?

She would take what was hers.

One way or another.