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The Sovereign's Darkflame	By : Lord_Tyrant Category: +G through L > League of Legends Views: 11768 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The following work, concerning the intellectual property of Riot Games (League of Legends), is entirely non-profit and no intention is made to market or unlawfully charge for it.

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Sapience is the only thing in nature to fathom, let alone question, the morality of what it does.

*~*

People are animals, I once thought to myself. I still do, actually, but … not all animals are people.

The creeping light of dawn finally reached her bedroom, high in the elite housing of the Citadel of Dawn. It spilled across the cold marble floor, fanciful rays of orange and yellow mixed together in beautiful morning hues. Shyvana, lying in her bed with the sheets thrown open, stared at the ceiling, eyes already wide. Minutes ticked by, the sun rising higher, the light dancing its way across her iridescently purple skin and scales. The warmth so many others claimed to enjoy barely registered in her mind compared to her own blood's heat.

Animals respect strength and only strength.

Lifting her hand over her head, she stared at each finger. Where had once been thick, blackish claws now sat neatly-trimmed nails. It took constant work to keep them decent, for they easily grew back to their flesh-goring form after a few weeks.

The strong kill, and the weak die; how or why is just details. That’s what animals believe. It’s what Noxians believe, too.

With a tiny grunt of exertion, she sat up, her long red hair spilling every which way. Shyvana scratched her head in an awkward finger comb, barely wincing at the snarls she ran into. Sitting in her bed, she lazily looked toward the balcony door, the morning light spilling in with the same old sight it always did. She found herself in the Demacian citadel more and more these days, ever bound by Jarvan’s stately politics. The merest shadow of that thought made her grimace irritably.

It’s a simple life, being strong. You start to ignore everything else, anything that isn’t a threat or food. That works for animals … but, people are different.

Twisting around, she kicked her legs over the edge and sat with a slump, a touch too lazy to get up just yet. She scratched at a spot on her backside, eyes squinted from the morning glare.

People care about things nothing else does. ‘Honor’, ‘Virtue’, ‘Righteousness’. Something about finding your soul’s true path. I don’t get those things, honestly. Or, at least, I didn’t.

A lowly rumble shook Shyvana’s chest, one she was only dimly aware of making. Such restlessness had become familiar to her. She looked around her room, golden eyes searching for someone she knew wouldn’t be there. The usual disappointment, however expected, came once again. Letting out a sigh, her gaze drifted to the head of her bed and the pillows there. It was a right pile of fancy feathers and soft cloth, something far too irritating to sleep with. She only really needed two: one for her head, and the other she leaned over and picked up.

Despite its relative firmness, it was crumpled inward, well-worn from its nightly entrapment between her arms. Shyvana clutched it to her chest and buried her face into its topside. Her own scent stood out plain enough, but it was the other she wanted. Drawing in deep, lungful air, a touch of panic arose when she couldn’t find it. Turning the pillow over, she inspected the other end, the faintest trace of a flowery fragrance greeting her fiery nerves. “Hmph. Still here, huh?” she muttered.

When you start putting meaning to the world beyond strong or weak, quick or dead, everything changes. Not for the better. Not for the worse, either.

The nameless agitation bled away, and Shyvana sat upon her bed, soaking in the morning lull. Duty and work would come in a few minutes, but she could wait until then. “I must be getting old,” she said to herself, looking up to the ever brightening balcony. “Sitting around and wasting time on stupid questions like this.”

But … if you don’t wonder about how things are sometimes, you won’t see what’s coming.

That one little thought had plagued her for a good week so far. Shyvana grumbled nonsense under her breath before finding the strength of will to get out of bed. Carefully chucking the pillow back onto the others, she then reached overhead in a long, back-popping stretch. Satisfied, she fell into the rest of her routine, working her arms, legs, and torso in a quick ten minute session. Demacian training required it every morning, lest one have an ungodly cramp in the midst of combat. More often than not, they happened during patrols, but still, she wouldn’t chance it.

Some twenty lazy minutes later and her exercises done, she donned her heavy armor and left her bedroom with a hungry belly. The heavy-set wooden door, reinforced by its iron adornments, shut behind her with a heavy click. The noise carried far in the quiet morning, echoing down the stone halls of the officers' quarters. Her armored footsteps joined it as she made her way to the stairs.

The vaulted walls and ceiling greeted her with stony silence; gold and silver furnishings adorned the arches, and well-polished oak tables sat in even rows, potted flowers set atop them. There weren't any paintings or statues like in the lower galleries, yet a sense of pride hung reverently on the décor. Shyvana, in all her years, had trouble being as enthused with it as others. All that stretched before her was a long, straight passage, the alcoves for the tables perfect for cover from arrows. Every thirty feet, thin cuts in the stone hid iron bandings, receded enough a casual look would miss it. At a moment’s notice, a gate could drop down, stalling any would-be invaders behind inches-thick steel. Shyvana stopped at the top of the stairs, the circular winding stairwell awaiting her. Cut outs in the outer wall allowed for fanciful, clear glass windows. Iron shutters could be drawn across them in a second, giving archers useful cover. She scratched at an itchy spot on her cheek and started down the stairs, one heavy step at a time.

‘Home’ and ‘Fortification’ mean the same thing in Demacian tongue. It took me a while to learn that, but it really does embody them. A Demacian is nothing without a home, and their home is what makes Demacia.

It was the rhetoric most-used against her. She had no home in Demacia, nothing to call her own that wasn’t the armor strapped to her. Despite Jarvan’s invitation--and the prestige and many accolades she’d won in his name--that fact always remained. The people heaped praise upon her, and some did offer a place in their homes for her, but that would never be her home. For years she hadn’t cared about it in the slightest, but it became ever harder to ignore. The encroaching noise of the morning crowds proved a welcome reprieve from her introspection.

The local garrison intermingled with Jarvan’s own personal soldiers, leaving the otherwise spacious hallway oddly cramped; unusual, given it was wide enough for thirty to march shoulder-to-shoulder without an issue. A sentry by the stairwell gave her a salute and nod, the pristine silver armor of a citadel guard picturesque next to the marble stone. Shyvana returned with a nod of her own and a half-hearted wave. Officers refused to acknowledge such a casual gesture, but she didn’t care for the impropriety.

Falling into rank with the rest of the morning crowd, they all had the same goal: the breakfast hall. Weary eyes peeked out at her every so often, some in recognition, others in awe, and more still for their own reasons. The garish crimson and gold of her armor set her apart already, and quite a few Demacians were always eager to take a peek at the captain of Prince Jarvan’s royal guard.

She could only puff out her chest and drink in the pride so much. Nowadays, it just tired her out.

It’s strange. You can work with people, bleed beside them, cry with them, build their homes, keep their fires warm, and they will think highly of you. But, there’s always some invisible wall in the way. Like no matter what I do, it’ll always be there, and they’ll always look at me through it. I know it isn’t unique. The nobles belly-ache about it all the time, how they don’t ‘understand the common folk’. I guess even regular humans get set aside, but … it doesn’t feel the same.

The food hall soon stood before her and the other eager soldiers, the morning sun beaming through windows in the arched roof. Already a number of men and women walked and sat about it, taking up whatever chairs they could, waiting in lines for their food. Here Shyvana broke rank from the rest and cut through the crowd, the soldiers politely stepping aside.

At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform one ascended small stairs to get to, were the officers' tables. The left-facing side of the wall there opened up with a strong archway, letting the morning sun spill in. It reminded her, in a small way, of some chapels she'd stayed in over deployment. The revered sat at the heads of the many, paragons of virtue set to inspire the rest. At least, Jarvan tried to convince her of that–she couldn't see shit up there if she sat in the lower tables.

Shyvana climbed up the stairs, straightening her shoulders in a more 'proper' posture. Her slitted eyes swept over the long tables, squinted from the light. Only one table had people sitting at it yet, and etiquette meant for her to sit with them. Opting to sit by one's self and not with others was rudely arrogant, after all.

With a lift of her leg and an awkward shimmy given her heavy armor, Shyvana plopped down onto the sturdy table bench. Already, some morning appetizers had been laid out—namely bread, water, and some butters—as well as fellow officers already seated with her. To her right, a few comfortable spots away sat one man, and across the table sat two others. The rest were far enough away they were ignorable enough. Her loud arrival quieted their conversation, and three sets of curious eyes regarded her.

Of them, she distinctly recognized one brown haired man and his ‘dashing’, chiseled face.

“Ah, a good and bright morning to you, Shyvana!” Garen Crownguard, enormous in stature and voice, called out from across the table.

A good deal of practice is the only thing that kept her from grumbling irritably. Shyvana gave him a half-hearted salute and awkwardly sat forward to get herself a plate and some bread. He chuckled back with a wry grin before turning to the fellow he’d just been talking with. Idle conversation in halls like this always tickled her senses. Heightened hearing meant she picked up more than most, and tuning it out was just as annoying. At the same time, though, it offered glimpses into the ordinary lives of humans.

It wasn’t strictly eavesdropping if she wasn’t making an effort to listen in on them.

All sorts of things passed out of the mouths of soldiers, and she heard most of them. The wonderful taste of banality settled over their words, none of it truly new to her, but the energy of conversation entirely enviable. Some spoke of their wives or lovers, others the children and new recruits they handled, and more still babbled in rowdy, cryptic tongues which only friends truly understood. It was entertaining in its own right to pick through who said what and why. One particular remark caught her ear, however, from the mouth of a man speaking to Garen himself.

“… Aye, aye, not a banner amongst them, but Noxians like them weren’t just rabble.”

“The lower plains, you say? That is strange indeed. What sort of plan sends soldiers that heavily-equipped out there?” Garen said, both acknowledging and contemplating in the same breath.

“What’s this?” Shyvana interjected, her scratchy voice garnering both their attention.

“Ah. The queerest thing, I say. A Noxian war band of about one hundred? Judging by what he said they’re wearing, they seem to be ones deployed from the capital.”

“You’re serious? Elite Noxians walking right along our border?”

“Aye.” Garen nodded and folded his muscular arms together. “They’re not flying banners, apparently. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were trying to walk right by.”

“But you know better.”

“Noxians don’t walk anywhere.”

So the saying went—if a Noxian was on the move, there would be death and pillaging. It was a fact of life in their twisted military. Shyvana’s face contorted into a scowl, all the more terrifying with her draconic visage. “I suppose I’ll have to restrain Jarvan’s sightseeing, then.”

A look of understanding came over Garen at that, and he rubbed his chin with a wry grin. “I shall leave that to your capable hands, Captain.”

“I pray the Dauntless Vanguard will be on hand for assistance if I need it,” Shyvana returned dryly, and the look between them exchanged as any co-workers under the same duress might. Each shook their head and went back to their food.

Of all the nobility in Demacia she had to deal with, Garen Crownguard stood out as an oddball. An absolute paragon of Demacian virtue who rivaled even Jarvan himself, he never precisely made her feel like an outsider. But an intangible air hung about him, a sort of presence that made him larger than life--than his already impressive size commanded. She could never put her finger down on why, despite having pummeled the crap out of him on more than a handful of occasions.

Nonetheless, he was a trustworthy man, insofar as the safety and prosperity of Demacia was concerned.

Shyvana exhaled through her nose, deflating slightly, and she glanced at her own hands while picking at a piece of bread, eying her differently colored skin. It was a mundane thing, just being a different color from everyone else. Not a single person in all of Demacia looked like her. And yet, for all of her strength and deeds, she wondered if she might ever have an air of intangibility like Garen, or the admiration so many lofted upon him. She’d buried such thoughts about it years ago, but the notion crept back into her mind when she least wanted it to.

The half-dragon tried to not give it much attention and finished breakfast.

*~*

Depending on her luck, finding Jarvan in any given day could be easy or hard. Here in the citadel, if he was doing his job, she'd find him in the upper halls with other high ranking or senior officers. Unfortunately, all that greeted her when she walked into the hall was a range of questions demanding to know where the prince was. Such ill fortune soured her mood immediately, for one could only ever excuse themselves from nobility with biting remarks and sharp pleasantry. Very few bothered—or dared—to speak plainly of their distaste in her presence anymore. That didn’t stop them from willfully using their scornful tones or nicely-wrapped words.

And so, she did as she always did: continue on, her head held high with an unrepentant glare for any smart-mouther who crossed her path. The air of unapproachability she’d honed over the years saved her quite a bit of trouble on its own. It was, among other tools, one of the better ways to survive the pointless social hunting grounds people bothered themselves with.

Still, it tired her all the same.

Where the hell did he run off and hide to? Shyvana thought with an irritable rumble in the back of her throat. He’s not at the training grounds, or their servants would sniff him out. If he’s in the royal quarters, he’d be found. He can’t lounge in the lower levels … so, he snuck out of the citadel.

Jarvan could be many things, a great deal of which she respected; He, however, found new ways to piss her off every other week. Shyvana turned a corner and began to head towards the stairs to the ground level. Forget Noxians, I’ll kill him if he left without a guard.

Her fellow soldiers wordlessly stepped aside for her as they went by on their own business. Shyvana took to the stairs two steps at a time, her heavy armor rattling with every thump of her boots. The excessiveness of such speed didn’t concern her; it warmed her muscles and loosened the dreary ache that being around so much petricite brought her. The half-dragon swiftly descended to the ground level and she landed in one of the larger passage halls. Hawkishly checking for Jarvan’s herculean height and golden armor, her nose twitched with an unpleasant curl when she didn’t see him. It’s never easy, is it?

The first order of business, then, was to investigate the citadel’s entry guards. Shyvana turned toward the exit and started her walk. The crowds of soldiers were less accommodating here, though most tried to give her space as soon as they saw her. She neared the arching, wide-mouthed gate, but a voice cutting over the rumble of people caught her ear.

“Captain Shyvana!” someone had called out, familiar enough it tickled her.

“Hm?” She turned around and squinted, trying to spot the man. Her shorter height amongst Demacians, especially in so crowded a place, worked well against her here. A sight caught her eye nonetheless, one that put her off guard. Making his own way through the crowds, the towering presence of Garen approached, as easily seen as felt. And what do you want?

He reached her easily, perhaps easier than she herself walking the same distance. “Ah—wait, Captain Shyvana!” Garen said, slightly out of breath. He chuckled to himself nonetheless, amused by something Shyvana couldn’t begin to imagine. “Oh, boy, I need to go marching again. Getting a bit winded with just a brisk pace!”

She rolled her eyes. “What is it?”

“Right. Do you know where the Prince is? I’ve some business with him.”

“I was just about to go get him.”

“Do you mind if I accompany you then?”

“If you wish.”

Shyvana turned back to the gate, and with Garen beside her, went to greet the guards. With a bit of back and forth, and a touch of surprise on their part, they told her that Jarvan had, in fact, left the citadel. He didn’t specify where, nor did they dare try asking the Prince about his business. If she had been irritated before, she certainly became so after finishing the conversation and departing through the gate herself.

The outside of the citadel, when one got past the enormous and thick walls, was a grand plaza in its own right. Polished brick laid across the ground and enormous, rib-like archways stretched down the central walkway, each fanned like the wings of a bird. Small benches and flower beds dotted along it in even rows, offering a splash of wild colors amongst the ever-present whites, blues, and golds. She herself had once believed it a grandiose, an entry which demonstrated wealth with its frivolous nature. It was only a year later she learned of the secret fortifications: the arches themselves resisted ranged spells, and the flower beds sat atop defensible half-cover.

A breeze of cool air wafted by, comfortable against her hot skin and armor. Shyvana breathed in deeply, enjoying the clean, grassy smells and the chalky hints of stone.

“He skipped out on his meetings again, didn’t he?” Garen asked suddenly, breaking her peaceful moment.

The half-dragon’s brow ticked and she sneakily glanced around. At least he waited until we were alone.

“Yup,” Shyvana remarked dryly, earning a more genuine, if embarrassed chuckle, from Garen.

“I assure you he’s very good at his job,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “When he does it, anyway.”

“I’m starting to believe we should side with the King when he asks him about marriage.”

“By the Light, we’ll both never hear the end of it if we do.”

“At least then we’ll know where he is.”

“Hah!” Garen slapped his gloved hands together, and a tiny, if wry, smile cracked across Shyvana’s face.

The two of them continued on, leaving the arches behind. A wider, flattened expanse greeted them, one equal parts stone walkways and rolling, knee-high grass patches. The citadel and its accompanying buildings ringed around the expanse; collectively, they were the seat of the city’s nobility, enshrined at the top of a smaller mountain in the vast range they had been built inside of. Shyvana’s attention went toward the grand road that led up and down from lower city, itself flanked by an impressive keep built directly into the cliffside. The barracks, as it happened to be, housed all the elite guard save the royal and hand-picked champions of the nobility. It was also, when in doubt, the place Jarvan secluded himself to most often.

He was a popular, grounded man and well-renowned among the soldiers, but she couldn’t help wondering if this helped out his princely duties at all.

“Ah, ahem, Captain Shyvana?” Garen asked, his voice pointed and sudden in breaking the quiet.

“What is it?”

“I’ve meant to ask for a while now, though I don’t quite know how to broach the subject.”

There was something in his words that rubbed her the wrong way. Shyvana scowled, grateful he was behind her in that moment. What’s he after? she thought, stretching her mind to grasp at whatever it could be. The specter of their prior exchange, once humorous and ignorable, came rushing back. She whirled around with great speed and Garen startled, almost jumping a food backward. “By the flame in my blood, Garen Crownguard, if you are seriously going to ask me about marrying him I will—“

“What?! No! No, no no!” Garen shook his hands and head, properly cowing backward as much as one of his height could. “Heavens, not at all! I’m well aware of your distaste about that matter.”

Shyvana squinted, her slitted eyes leering dangerously from under the short shadows her helm cast over them. “Then what?”

“It’s … well—forgive me. I’ve tried to think of the polite words for this but you are, uhm ... magical, yes?”

The entire situation had long since turned into the strangest day of the year yet for her. Standing before her was Garen Crownguard, approaching with a question most would consider rude at best, if not dangerous otherwise. The truth of her half-blooded nature was well-known throughout Demacia, for better or worse..That dragons themselves were magical beings was also a well-known fact. Furthermore, he himself had scorned her when they first met, at least until he learned she helped save Jarvan IV.

“What of it?” The dangerous glint in her eyes sharpened further.

Garen coughed into his hand, straightening his shoulders. “I’ve, ah, been wondering about it. Magic, that is,” he said, and while his voice remained the same clear sound, it suddenly lacked his imposing strength.

“And you’re asking me?” Shyvana asked with a touch of ridicule. “I’m not a mage. Go visit the Ionians and ask them.”

“You are the only Demacian I know of I could ask this, if I’m honest.”

He had her there, at least. If he knew about his sister, they wouldn’t be talking. Shyvana’s lip curled distastefully but she still waved her hand a little to continue.

"The petricite around us. Does it hurt?” Garen asked, a touch more confidence and clarity to his voice.

That caught her off guard. “No. Not in a way you would understand, anyway.”

“So, it does?” There was a sense of honesty to the question—an earnest desire to know, even if Shyvana couldn’t imagine a reason why. The realization of that disturbed her more than anything else thus far.

“For mages and other people, it would. My blood is fire, but the petricite can calm it,” Shyvana said, carefully picking her words. A rueful smile flitted across her face, and she couldn’t help spitting out the next few words. “At least, that’s what I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

Damn it. Biting things I shouldn’t be again. Shyvana rubbed her brow and scrunched her face in a most vexed frown. Fine, whatever.

“Half-human, half-dragon, Garen. The human half you know. The dragon half is different—powerful. It wants things certain ways. Petricite makes it quiet, so the human part is stronger.”

“That … is that not a good thing?”

“You tread dangerous grounds,” Shyvana remarked, keeping her tone clear of the growl itching the back of her throat. He had the good grace to bow his head a little apologetically. “But you’re not wrong. I thought that way when I was younger. Wondered about it. Then we started going to Ionia. There’s magic there. Everywhere. In the dirt, the sky, every breath you take. The dragon part got stronger.” She looked over toward the citadel in the distance. Though still relatively large, taking in all of it wasn’t so hard. Garen also looked from beside her. “Then we came back, and it was pushed down again. It felt wrong. Like I suddenly realized the air in my lungs was getting pushed out, or something. A part of me just wasn’t right.”

“Watch,” Shyvana said, drawing his gaze to her. She sucked a breath in, and with some effort, exhaled sharply and spit a streak of flame out. Smaller, and certainly more timid in the cold air than it otherwise would’ve been. “In Ionia, I could burn a tree down with this kind of effort. But here, I can barely get this much out because there’s so much petricite.”

“I … see,” Garen returned slowly.

Shaking her head, the half-dragon turned back toward her real goal. “I don’t know what mages feel around it, but me?—have you ever tried drowning, Garen?”

“Err, once. I slipped into a river in my armor.”

“It’s like that. I’m always drowning, and it takes so much not to stop breathing. I was fine with that, when I was younger.” Without any preamble, she started walking again. Garen quickly joined her, at a comfortable distance beside her. Silence crept upon them, but she wasn’t content to let it in just yet. “Besides, what made you ask, anyway?”

“I suppose, much like yourself, I saw how things were in Ionia,” Garen returned. “Unfettered magic is dangerous, and prone to evil, I think. Or, thought, at least. Yet, I cannot find it in myself to say the good peoples of Ionia are evil because of their magic. Certainly, some are, and I have seen them.” His words came in a hurry, fast by his measure, and Shyvana had trouble keeping up with it. “I think it best if they control it—and they do, in their own ways. It’s very—“ The sudden stop left the air vibrating with anxious energy.

She spied at him from the corner of her eye with a tilt of her head, finding a perturbed expression on his face.

“If magic can be made … good, or wholesome, then should Demacia not try to?” Garen asked slowly, almost as much to himself as to her. “Is it not just to let such people prove their virtue in the name of righteousness?”

Shyvana searched herself for some kind of answer, but no words in her mind felt right. Garen Crownguard, asking aloud a treasonous question. A shining paragon of Demacian virtue whom she never once imagined such an insane situation arising from. Could she answer him? How could she answer him?

It loomed over her, a problem so vast she didn’t know where to start with it.

“I don’t know,” Shyvana said finally, shrugging her shoulders. “Jarvan can answer that better, probably. The only Demacian magic I've seen was down in the White Alleys.”

“The alleys, you say?”

“Yeah. Don’t go there in armor if you go at all.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re not a hero to them.” A distant memory hung in the back of her mind, chief amongst them the few times she dared visit such places. The end result of Demacia’s suppression of magic, be it through deliberate effort or sheer petricite presence, left little more than hollowed out shells and skeletons wearing skin suits. They could talk, but she imagined a zombie might talk the same way.

The two remained silent, and Shyvana found herself quite fine with it. The whole conversation itched her scaled skin the wrong way. Something other and different. It wasn’t at all what she wanted to contend with. Do I tell Jarvan? she mused, indecision haunting her. While she couldn’t expect Garen to be malicious in his intentions, she would trust him to be Demacian about it. And that sort of answer would not be good in the slightest. Everything about him bugged her, and she knew well enough this might pose a problem.

Without much fanfare, Shyvana went on, and Garen followed. The conversation hung over her, a jaggedly stabbing into her. Were it not for the prince, would she find Demacians her enemies? If she excused mages but only to find her companions raising arms against them, where did that leave her? A thought arose from within, separate yet wholly hers. It clawed its way into her mind with a sudden, brutal insertion, tinged by fire and instinct. The flash of an old memory came by, one of her visits to the White Alleys. Just a few husk-like beings that might've been human once were arrayed before her. Yet, in one of them, she saw familiar purple robes and ornate armor, a face withered to the bone and the glowing eyes within all but gone.

The half-dragon slowed to a stop in a single step as a feeling overcame her. It rushed through her in a wave, drowning out every fiber and muscle of her person, screaming in her veins with a loudness she couldn’t name. In the span of a heartbeat, her eyes constricted, and all the gold in them washed away in the volcanic eruption of bloody red that followed.

Of all things Shyvana knew of herself, she recognized this in a dim, distant way.

The rage that came at her father’s death.

But, this stood apart from that.

She looked down at her hand and slowly turned it over, palm-side upward. The whole motion should’ve been more familiar than the alien, surreal sensation she felt. Her hand, numb as it was in the glove she wore, was shaking. It was tiny enough no one could rightly see it, but she knew it was.

Whatever it was, Shyvana couldn’t name it.

‘Rage’ was too small a word to use.

“Ah, Shyvana?” Garen called out, some steps ahead. “Is something the matter?”

As quick as it came, the rush passed and all that lingered was the shaking aftershocks of adrenaline. Shyvana stretched her arms overhead and hurriedly shouted back, “Ahh, I’m just, trying not to get pissed if he isn’t there. I don’t have time to chase him!”

Garen gave a hearty laugh at that, sounding all too normal. “Well, we can split up if we have to. He can’t hide forever.”

“No, just long enough to miss every damn meeting!”

It helped in its own way, talking so normally. Shyvana put her attention back to walking and looking around at the all too beautiful scenery. Even if that scenery, for the most part, was grass and rocks.

Shyvana tried to keep well and truly far away from her earlier thoughts.
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The Sovereign's Darkflame