Who holds power in Noxus?

Citizens of Noxus, I bring word from the capital!

It is a time for celebration! The Hand of Noxus is returned, and stands with our new Grand General! With the noble houses united behind them, the new age of our glorious empire begins now!

Let it be known that, on this day, from distant Shurima to the shores of Ionia, the countless wars initiated by Boram Darkwill have been ended. No longer will our treasuries be drained in pursuit of victories that none can truthfully promise. No longer will our brave warriors spend their lives needlessly, and without gain.

Noxian gold, and Noxian blood. These are the treasures that Jericho Swain has pledged to return to you, the people.

While on campaign in the northlands, mighty General Darius received orders to stand down. Rather than meekly accept this edict, he marched back to the capital with all his warhosts—for the duty of the Hand of Noxus is first and foremost to the empire itself, and not to whomsoever shall sit upon its throne, with the passing of years. It is right and proper that he would question these orders, and the authority by which they were issued.

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Let it be known that General Darius met with General Swain. Let it also be known that Darius was satisfied that the coup against Boram Darkwill was just, and legal, and that Swain’s intentions were for the good of all Noxus.

Long live Grand General Jericho Swain, savior of the empire!

Under the protection of Darius and his warhosts, representatives from all noble houses have met to hear Swain’s plans for the future of Noxus. Those who have sworn themselves and their houses to him in perpetuity have received full pardons for any prior wrongdoing, or opposition they may have offered. These men and women are proud and honorable servants of the Grand General, and are not to be harmed.

In his boundless wisdom and mercy, he has also granted clemency to those who refuse his benevolence. They have a full seven days to conclude their affairs within the empire, surrender their lands and titles, and depart Noxus forevermore. Any who choose to remain in defiance will forfeit their lives, with public Reckonings to recommence in the Noxkraya Arena three days thereafter.

Henceforth, let it be known that each and every Noxian shall be treated equally, and on the merit of their own ability and strength. Furthermore, let it be known that Jericho Swain and the noble houses are committed to ending the decades of incompetence and nepotism that plagued Darkwill’s rule.

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But the former Grand General was not an evil man, and Swain would not have him remembered as such. Rather, he was a weak man—manipulated from behind the scenes by others...

Yes, friends. There is a corruption at the heart of our great empire. For centuries this corruption has grown, blooming like a pleasant flower in plain sight, while its roots twist and spread in the darkness beneath.

No more, friends! No more! Jericho Swain will destroy any who seek to exploit Noxus for their own secretive gains! He will tear out this corruption, this blighted and thorned rose, root and stem! Every one of its agents and allies are hereby named enemies of the empire, and all good citizens are obliged to do them harm, if they are able. Together we shall prevail! Let none be above suspicion!

Before Boram Darkwill, these same sinister forces puppeted even the greatest kings and champions of the Noxii, all the way back to the Rune Wars. Indeed, our beloved Grand General has heard the fears of the noble houses—that if any could fall to such corruption, then why not him also? To that end, henceforth he has decreed that Noxus shall not be ruled by any single individual... but three. He draws upon the legacy of the greatest among the old tribes—the vision of the Noxidi, the might of the Noxkri, the guile of the Noxtali—to create a “Trifarix” council, whose members will eschew any throne, and embody those same principles of strength that have ever allowed Noxus to triumph over its foes.

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Finally, let it be known that after much consultation with his dear friends among the nobility, the Grand General has reconciled with the leaders of the assassin guilds. Alongside Swain and Darius, they will find a place on the council prepared for them, maintaining a “faceless” representative to protect the empire against even the most insidious threats from within.

Go forth, citizens! Carry these words and proclamations to all! The greatest years of Noxus lie yet before us, and we shall rise as a single people, united in purpose and glory, once more!

ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: In spite of the inspirational and conciliatory promises contained in these official pronouncements, within a single year the Trifarix had completely changed the political landscape of Noxus. Imperial governorships and military commissions were no longer inherited, but bestowed through official channels. All personal wealth was to be declared and verified, and hefty taxes imposed on any gold or silver not held in trust by state banks. Finally, it became illegal for any citizen to be owned as chattel by another, and unauthorized sale or transfer of the same was made punishable by death.

Effectively, Jericho Swain courted the noble houses to gain a foothold within the assassin guilds, then systematically dismantled the power structures that had supported them for almost a thousand years. Though the full repercussions of this remain to be seen, it is likely that many nobles have been driven into alliance with his clandestine enemies, and eventual rebellion.

He arrived at the camp only moments before the strategy council was to begin, flanked by a small honor guard, each handpicked from the Trifarian Legion. They remained at the entrance as I watched him approach.

Some men cast a shadow greater than themselves, but few could bring a darkness such as this, one that circled above us and hungrily cawed. In a way, the ravens that seemed to follow him around the camp were a grim reminder of every warrior’s fate, the tattered cloth in their beaks a match for the state of our own banners. Yet, as he strode into the remains of the war tent, I realized I had not prepared myself for how truly mortal he looked.

There was grey in his hair, framed by a crimson sky choking on ash. His battle-worn armor gave way to a functional coat, and he kept his arms tightly within its folds—as I imagined one of his lineage might. I smiled, for he was still, at his heart, a gentleman. He wore no signs of rank beyond the telltale scars of a soldier who had seen his share of bloodshed. There were many gathered now for the council who demanded more fear and respect, swaying their warhosts with powerful displays of strength. Each of them seemed more than capable of breaking the man before us.

But, somehow, this was the man who led us all. The Grand General of Noxus.

Looking at him, I could feel there was something I could not place, no matter how closely I looked. Something truly unknowable, perhaps? Perhaps it was because there was something unknowable about this man, that so many flocked to his side. Whatever the draw, Jericho Swain stood before us now, and it was far too late for me to turn back.

Five warhosts had marched onto the Rokrund Plain, but it had been only a matter of weeks before the locals had shattered our positions. They blasted through our hastily-constructed berms with explosive powder, mined from hills that seemed even more barren than those of home. Disaster had built upon disaster, until Swain himself had no choice but to intervene. I had made sure of that.

For months, I had prepared. I had sent warmasons deep into the mines. I had mapped every detail, every conceivable twist of the land… and the fates upon which Noxus now balanced, the whispers that gave each moment shape…

My ear itched at the memory of the pale woman’s words. Of the moment she first commanded me, and gave voice to our plot.

Everything was in place. I had accounted for it all. Here, where the earth opened into a maze of canyons impossible to escape, I and I alone would determine the future of the empire.

After all, was that not what Swain had called upon this council to do?

“My trusted generals,” Swain said finally. The power in his voice rang out like the drawing of a blade. He paused, as if giving us a moment to test ourselves against its keen edge. “Tell me how Noxus may prevail.”

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“There are twelve war-barques here, in the hills,” Leto began, pointing to a spot on the map already worn white by his attention, “each drawn by a basilisk. Send them before the warbands, and we’ll be marching over the enemy dead. Those beasts would rut with a hedge of rusty spears if we let them.”

He smiled, pleased at his own cunning, but Swain was more concerned with the wine being poured into his glass.

Will it be poison? his eyes seemed to ask, as he peered around the table. I stared at my reflection in his armor. I would betray nothing of my intent.

“We can scarcely control the basilisks ourselves,” Swain finally murmured, carefully regarding the fine Ionian vintage. “Imagine even a single explosive, dropped by a sapper within earshot of the beasts. And then tell me, in your imagination, who runs first—the basilisks with their tails between their legs? Or your vaunted warhost?”

“We scorch the earth then,” Maela petitioned before Leto could respond, the words flying wildly from her mouth. “Set fire to the pitch they’ve laid to burn on our advance. Drive them out of those damn mines.”

Swain sighed. “We came here for the very earth you would burn. Though I suppose it is too much to expect you to know the uses of saltpetre.” He swirled the wine in his glass, betraying a hint of disappointment. “All you have done so far is bury your own men with it.”

“The redblades are still sharp,” Jonat spat impatiently from the shadows where he lurked, the darkness seeming almost bright against his Shuriman skin. “We’ll enter the mines after dusk, take out their leaders. Clean or messy. Doesn’t matter.”

“An admirable strategy,” Swain laughed. “But those leaders are not soldiers. Not yet. Our enemy here merely follows whomever bellows the loudest. Kill one, and there will be three bellowing by morning.”

I laughed, nodding to the frowning leader of the redblades. “For a moment, I was afraid you’d find a way for us to actually win, Jonat.”

Silence fell around the table. The candles were burning low beside the maps.

This was my moment. The pale woman would be pleased. I would say her name as I sent our Grand General to oblivion.

“The truth is, you cannot win this battle,” I continued. “No one can fight death. Not even the ruler of Noxus. Darkwill showed us that.”

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Swain and the others watched as I carefully drew the flint striker from my tunic. The fuse line was already in my other hand. Leto, aging hero of the Siege of Fenrath, bristled.

“Granth, what are you doing?” he growled, glancing down at the crude demolition charge I had carefully positioned under the table, barely an hour before. “You would threaten the Grand General? This is treason.”

Still, none of them dared approach me. I held the striker over the fuse, ready.

Except… someone was laughing. It took me a moment to realize who it was.

“And there, General Granth is the only one who has the right of it,” Swain chuckled, smoothing the wrinkles from his coat. “He alone understands. The rest of you, you see a battle and ask what you must do to avoid defeat. But some battles cannot be won. Sometimes, the only strategy is to burn. To charge into the flames, knowing full well you will die, but that twenty thousand march behind you. And that behind them, there is a greater power.”

He let his coat fall open, to reveal… To… reveal…

“Granth and I,” he said with a cruel smile, “we always look for what must be sacrificed in order to win.”

Maela lunged for my trembling hands. Leto too. But it was Swain’s inhuman grip that clamped around my throat, hefting me from the ground, the unlit fuse forgotten.

“If only you could tell her yourself how you failed,” the Grand General whispered, his voice rumbling with the wrath of eons. “If only she, too, could heed the wisdom of the dead.”

I tried to scream then, to confess it all. To somehow beg for forgiveness.

But there is nothing now, save for the soft murmur of whispers. I spill my secrets, this tale, into your ears. Fading like the rustling of wings, as the raven cries its carrion caw…

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.

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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.

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—

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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.