Swain's face remained calm as he watched the young man in front of him begin to waver.
Perhaps all it takes is a spark to see what he's truly made of.
"My eyes have seen the fall of the Lightshield family," Swain said, voice low but clear.
"And we are willing to accept you—even if we were once enemies."
"Regardless, the Lightshield name and Demacia will endure!"
Jarvan's voice was firm, masking the unease he felt.
He knew Noxus must be plotting something, but he held fast to the belief that Demacia and the Lightshields were united and would survive these dark times.
"I don't question your will," Swain replied, unfazed.
"But I need to see your strength."
"Strength…"
As the meeting drew to a close, Jarvan's expression hardened.
His gaze swept across the remaining silent figures in the council hall.
He raised his voice, clearly:
"I've heard that each member of the Trifarix holds the strength of Noxus itself. May I know your names?"
He believed they would not refuse him.
This was Noxus—a nation that revered strength above all.
Swain, ever the tactician, saw through him in an instant.
He said nothing, leaning back in his chair with a subtle smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
Before the silence stretched too long, Draven broke it with a wide grin, unable to resist the chance for theatrics.
"Draven—Imperial Executioner," he announced proudly.
"Come find me in the arena whenever you're ready to get carried to the infirmary in West District."
He chuckled darkly. "Heard you've sparred with Darius before. Not bad. Means you might even last a few swings with me. Don't worry—I'll have a healer standing by. Wouldn't want the prince bleeding out before the second round."
Draven's bloodthirsty grin said he meant every word.
"I'll remember that, Councilor Draven," Jarvan replied seriously.
"I'll take you up on that challenge when the time is right."
Draven's taunt lit a fire in him. The Immortal Bastion housed Noxus' most elite.
With the hundred-strong force that had accompanied him under the Lightshield banner, perhaps there was more to uncover here—more truths to find.
From the far end of the hall, a woman rested her chin on one hand, eyes gleaming with detached amusement.
"Listen, boy. The name's Camille—Camille Ferros."
"Ferros... of Piltover?" Jarvan blurted out, taken aback.
"Correct," Camille replied with a slight smirk.
"Nice to know someone in Demacia remembers."
She looked him over with mild curiosity, then added coolly, "Spare me your noble ideals. We all have our ways of surviving."
Jarvan was momentarily stunned. He turned his gaze toward the final member of the Trifarix present.
The council chamber bore many unique sigils, each marking a seat of power.
Jarvan assumed they corresponded to each member's domain.
The final figure was a strikingly beautiful woman, deceptively young in appearance. Behind her seat, a carved spider wove a delicate web.
She smiled sweetly, her voice smooth as silk.
"Elise of House Zaavan. Feel free to visit."
"Zaavan…" Jarvan hesitated.
The name of the Zaafan family echoed in Demacia's darkest history.
Many of his countrymen had fallen to their schemes—too many to forget.
"Perhaps I'll visit—when the time is right."
He kept his tone polite, but the bitter memories remained.
His family's records told of atrocities—Demacian prisoners tortured, executed, forgotten.
While Demacia preached forgiveness, the dead left no such instructions. He couldn't claim the right to forgive on their behalf.
Peace treaties did not erase history.
Noxus and Demacia had not forgotten their grudges.
They had shifted the battlefield from swords and blood to politics and subtle maneuvering.
And in this new arena, the conflict had only just begun.
After some time, the council chamber doors swung open again.
Jarvan stepped out, his expression unreadable, the weight of the meeting still heavy on his mind.
But as soon as he crossed the threshold, he stopped—his brows furrowing, eyes narrowing with alarm.
On White Square, the old General Laurent, who was supposed to be waiting, lay on the ground, a spear's gleaming tip resting dangerously against his neck.
One inch further, and the old general would have been run through.
"Noxus will not be insulted."
The cold voice belonged to Xin Zhao.
Without another word, he withdrew his spear, turned on his heel, and walked away—his black armor catching the light, long hair drifting behind him.
Jarvan clenched his fists.
He rushed forward and knelt beside General Laurent, helping him up with urgency.
His voice was low, tight with concern.
"General Laurent, what happened here?"
The old general drew a breath, his weathered face pale with restrained fury.
"It's nothing serious, Your Highness—just a disagreement."
"General, we're here representing Demacia. We can't afford to escalate things with Noxus right now," Jarvan said, trying to keep his tone even.
Laurent's eyes glinted with something sharper than age as he studied the prince.
"Then tell me, Your Highness—how did your meeting go?"
Jarvan sighed. He recounted the council session in brief, glossing over details but sharing enough to paint a picture.
When he finished, he added,
"I'll send word back to High Silvermere. My father needs to be informed. We're preparing to finalize a treaty."
He paused, thinking, then continued more quietly:
"But we didn't come all this way for diplomacy alone. Noxians value strength—we can show ours. If we do it right, we may learn more about their inner workings."
Generations of war had taught both nations caution, but Jarvan knew things were changing.
The Noxus of today wasn't the one Demacia had studied for centuries.
Even the red-haired woman he'd passed earlier, who seemed insignificant at first glance, carried a weight he couldn't explain.
A presence that unsettled him.
And if people like her were unremarkable here, what else was Noxus hiding?
"We'll need to use every moment we have to uncover what we can."
General Laurent nodded, though reluctantly.
"If that is Your Highness's will, then I'll make the arrangements."
But in his heart, Laurent was uneasy. The more they tried to learn, the more exposed they became.
If the weak sought to dig too deeply, they risked alerting the strong.
And once their hand was revealed, Demacia's strength—real or not—might not be enough to hold off a nation like Noxus.
He had watched Jarvan grow up, trained him, guided him.
The prince had talent, but he was still young.
Perhaps too young to realize when he was walking into a lion's den.
"Your Highness…" Laurent said quietly as they walked back to the camp.
"If we show them too much, won't we be revealing the power of the Lightshield Bulwark?"
"Hm?" Jarvan seemed distracted, barely catching the words.
Laurent opened his mouth to press the point, but a sharp pain shot through his chest.
He coughed, doubling over—blood staining his lips.
"General!"
Jarvan instantly supported him, guiding him to a nearby bench.
"Hold on, we'll get you to the western district. There are physicians there—good ones."
The western district? Laurent blinked.
Why was His Highness so familiar with the Immortal Bastion's layout?
Then a memory surfaced—something Garen had once mentioned, a quiet concern voiced long ago.
A story... told by Jarvan himself.
A troubling thought crept into Laurent's mind, slow and heavy, like a storm cloud gathering at the edge of reason.
Could it be…?
He coughed again, then shook his head to clear it, waving the prince off.
"It's just old wounds—nothing more. We have our medics. I'll be fine."
Then, after a moment's pause:
"Your Highness, when do we return to Demacia?"