He hated her.

Emotions are a dangerous thing for an assassin. They cause a loss of control, blindness, and recklessness. To be successful, one must have an iron control over every part of their being: physical, mental, and emotional. You do not love your allies, you do not hate your opponents, and you do not fear your enemies. Never bathe in the joy of victory, nor wallow in the pain of defeat. If you win, you win. If you lose, learn without anguish. An assassin does not feel anything beyond the need to finish their job.

But he hated her. She, who was so different from him in every way possible. Born into wealth and power, she fought for the love of the game and her name. Everything she had needed had been handed to her as a child; not only the training and the weapons needed to make a duelist, but the basics. Food, warmth, a roof. Safety.

Many people had initially insulted Talon's heritage, or lack thereof, before he had joined the League. It had never bothered him then, and it still didn't. But something about the way she said "peasant" drove him mad. For someone who had never known need, never known the pain of living through hunger and thirst, to throw such a word around carelessly angered him. And anger is dangerous.

When they first met, Talon said nothing. Fiora strode around the room, challenging champion after champion to a duel. When she reached him, she laughed.

"I remember reading about you; a street dog from Noxus who likes to play assassin." She sneered, standing toe-to-toe with the man. She was short, the top of her head just under his eyes, yet she managed to look down on him. It took all of Talon's willpower to turn and walk away without shoving a blade in her throat.

They met hundreds, if not thousands of times on the Fields of Justice since. Each time, Fiora smirks and makes sounds and motions as if beckoning a dog. Each time, Talon masks hatred and anger, fighting in the same cold, calculated manner as always. Sometimes he won, sometimes she won. He had never bothered to keep count of the statistics, though he was sure she did. It did not matter to him, for he would continue to do his job regardless. He found it impossible, however, to quell the small spark of satisfaction each time he killed her in the ring.

An assassin must not have emotions. An assassin is in total control of their faculties, uninfluenced by those around them. An assassin does not love, and does not hate.

He hated her.

She feared him.

A duelist doesn't fear. If you can beat your opponent, there is no reason to fear. If not, fear will not grant you victory, nor will it ensure mercy. Fear slows your steps and causes you to doubt your strikes. The rest of the emotions may come and go; happiness, joy, anger, sadness, and lust can all be used to their full advantage. But not fear; never fear. A duelist never fears.

But she feared him. Her opposite, seemingly in every way. She faced her opponents when fighting them, looking them in the eyes, as a sign of respect. He attacked from behind, unannounced, and quiet. He would never give a moment's notice before an attack, and if you were dying on the ground, he would turn and walk away. The only time she would see his eyes was when he held her still while slipping his blade into her throat; her body either too tired or too broken to resist. His eyes, so cold and emotionless, would watch without remorse as he did his deed; neither sadistically slowly, nor mercifully quick, but callused and casual. It meant nothing to him.

People had always questioned her abilities. While growing up, it was because she was a woman, because she wasn't tall, or because she was rich. When her father's dishonesty became known, doubts of her true abilities once again rose. Each time someone spoke out, her challenge and eventual victory would silence them. She knew that if she lost even one fight, no matter which opponent, no matter how close, her name and honor would crumble. Still, she never feared the men and women she fought against. Each time they became stronger and more powerful, her determination rose to match. She had no equal.

Nobody questioned Talon's abilities. Rooms would go quiet when he entered, and powerful champions would unconsciously feel their necks and throats. He rarely spoke, allowing Katarina or Cassiopeia to talk on his behalf. No emotions ever showed on his face or features. It was as if he was a machine made to kill. And it unnerved her more than she would admit.

She had insulted him. Perhaps by doing so, she thought, her unease would melt. Or perhaps he would react, showing her that he was truly human, not a robot or demon. He had looked at her, and she almost saw something akin to emotion flicker in his eyes. But before she could know for sure, he turned and calmly walked away. Nobody turned their back on the Grand Duelist; nobody still alive, anyways. But she couldn't gather the nerve to chase him.

She knew the number of battles they've had. She knew that her victories outnumbered his by four. It was an uncomfortably low number, one that could easily change by the end of their next encounter. Each day, whether it be on the field or at the institution barracks in passing, she taunts him, hoping to elicit some reaction. Each time she is completely ignored, and she spends the remainder of the fight with a hint of fear every time she turns around.

A duelist is above all assured in their power. They gloat in victory; they never experience defeat. Fear is not a factor, not an emotion that they can experience any more.

She feared him.