There's no honor in the gallows. Even as a public spectacle, it amounts to little more than taking out the trash. Only the scum of Ionia deserve the gallows – and there's only one more man to swing before it's her turn.

Riven welcomes it.

She's been dead on her feet for weeks now, all bones and no muscle, the bite of Zaun's masterpiece slowly eating her away from the inside. Her ruined sword, even at only a fraction of its original weight, had become too heavy to carry in the days before her capture.

She'd dragged in through the streets behind her like the death sentence it was, too tired to hide her face and too weak to run. So long she'd wandered the wild country far north from any town her company had razed, running from the ghosts of her past. But those ghosts had chased her back again, the poison reminding her that she could only outrun her fate for so long.

Better to give the Ionians the retribution they deserve than to waste away on some forgotten mountainside, nameless and screaming. Then, maybe, her death would have some purpose.

The man before her goes up the time-worn steps without a word; the assembled crowd neither jeers nor curses him, rather watching with solemn civility as justice is enacted. Sometimes it's hard for Riven to remember why, back in Noxus, she had understood these people to be barbarians.

It's Riven who feels barbaric, clambering stiffly onto her numb legs as a stoic guard hauls her up. Soon, though, it won't feel like her blood is trying to burn its way through her skin. Soon, she won't feel anything at all.

The guard steadies her, pushes her forward, but something's wrong, terribly terribly wrong. The gallows steps are right there, but he's steering her to the side and away from the platform. Back towards the ramshackle holding cells that reek of regret and resignation.

Her head spins and it's not the acidic effect of the chemicals that makes her dizzy. She's reeling, sick to her stomach, as he pushes her down onto a rough bench and disappears back out into the sunlight. Is she not meant to be hanged after all? Is it too good for a filthy Noxian?

Riven's head hangs and she sits shaking in the squalid darkness of the cell for many minutes before the door opens and a fresh breeze touches her face.

Cool fingertips dig in under her chin and force her head up. Riven complies, there's no fight left in her. Standing before her is the last person she'd ever expected to see, one of the Elders of the Ionian government.

"You're the Noxian defector," the woman says. It's not a question. "What's your name?"

Riven's shoulders twitch in a weary shrug. "Does it matter?"

The woman's smile is tight but not hostile. She removes her hand and Riven's head dips without the support. "Maybe it doesn't," she agrees, "Maybe you'll make a fool of me. But I'd like to think that it does, and you won't. Noxian, would you like a chance to redeem yourself?"

Riven deflates. "I don't think I can," she whispers.

But the Ionian kneels in front of her and Riven's head is still spinning, spinning. "What do you say we find out? Together."