Chapter 1:

Habeas Corpus

She was ready for this moment. She had been preparing for it before the message first entered the Du Couteau grounds, before she had stepped out of the shower, before she entered the shower, before she put twenty-eight sharp little blades through the bullseye as her morning practice, before she sat down to sleep the night before. She had anticipated it days before, weeks before, months before. She had readied herself for it when Keiran Darkwill fell within the chambers of the Noxian High Command, seen it in her mind the moment the news that Boram Darkwill had passed away, envisioned it the moment her father disappeared from Noxus. A thought presented itself, bubbling up from the recesses of her mind:

"If my father were here today, he would stand the undisputed successor to Darkwill. It is too great a coincidence to ignore that the two most powerful men in Noxus have been removed from their positions in so short a time."

Were those the words that sealed her fate? Blind, misspoken words that had appealed to Keiran, the man with the strongest claim to the throne. And at the same time, those words sent a veiled threat to Swain, the up and coming general who was challenging Keiran for the position. All the while, Katarina's position was safely secured as a champion incorporated into the Institute of War, immune to political backlash and an authority in her own right.

But Keiran died, and soon the League followed suit, buckling and collapsing as conspiracy and doubt stripped away its credibility. As it passed, so did her precious diplomatic immunity. She gambled, and twice she had failed. Swain took power, and alongside the collapse of the Institute of War, with nations beginning to coalesce their forces, he started to strengthen his hold on Noxus and the High Command. His confidants took the highest posts throughout the hierarchy. Dissenters were silenced, then purged.

Two mistakes, and there was no third chance. It was only a matter of time before Swain had come for her. The messenger offered no kind words.

"Swain's orders, Katarina. I had warned you this would happen. Now either we make a run for it or he tears us apart one by one."

"Don't lecture me, Talon: I'm not blind to the quagmire. But we cannot just "make a break for it". He expects me in a quarter of an hour: We won't get out of the city, and the guards most likely have orders pertaining to this. One step off Skull Hill and we'll be apprehended or killed."

Talon wore his mask with a hue of impatience and frustration, a look that always seemed to say "He would have done better". This dull, brooding glare did not offer any mental respite and only served to irritate her further.

"And going would be a death sentence." He responded.

"If he wanted me dead he would put me in irons. No, this is a summons. Wake up: He is testing you as much as he is testing me. If this is the case then we may have a chance. We must leave. Now. The longer we make him wait, the less time we'll have in the long run."

Talon sighed as Katarina strode past him, out of the lobby, making straight for the door. Hinges creaked as she strode out into the morning mist, skimming over the cobblestone path towards the entrance of the Du Couteau estate.

The air was brisk, strangely thin, as always: The Du Coteau residence, as well as the Main Palace and the Upper District all sat nestled on the peak of a colossal, misshapen rock of a mountain. Formally, it was known as "The Victor's Throne" but most common Noxians referred to it as "Skull Hill", after the contours and shadows that painted the picture of a skull stretching up the North-Western face of the mountain, all the way up to the Main Palace, Katarina's destination. She was given fifteen minutes, but even with the time wasted on Talon's journey to deliver the message, she would arrive there ten minutes early. The Du Couteau household was a mere stone's throw away from the palace, and even though the fog still existed at the summit, the dark outline of Noxus's high command was still faintly visible, its pillars and arches leading skyward towards the man-made apex of The Victor's Throne. Her family was old, and honorable, throughout the ages the High Command became inseparable with the Du Couteau house, which provided warriors, generals, advisors and assassins unmatched in all of Valoran. The household Katarina lived in was a keepsake of the Du Couteau name, stretching back to the very roots of her lineage, to the very beginning of Noxus itself.

The entrance to the Palace was a dark square, its ornate steel doors facing outwards, as if arms welcoming in the masses, or to Katarina, a gaping maw swallowing all that came too close. The rock outcrop that jutted out above it was suspended by massive iron pillars, whose metal was supposedly supplied by the first legions of Noxus, their broken blades and shattered armor melted down to build the framework of the Main Palace. Other forms of steel were present, with ten guards loitering on each side of the door, inspecting all who entered or left. Katarina and Talon passed through unmolested, part of the benefit of having such a noble bloodline, and by being summoned by the Grand General of the High Command.

The initial chambers were large caverns with stalactites, stalagmites and other rough natural features, although no water dripped from the ancient features. The walls were smoothed, from the ceiling hung dark chandeliers holding crystals that shone a dry light down upon the weathered floor. These features were mere distractions, however, and Katarina spent little time wasting her attention on them as she moved from room to room, making her way to The Chamber.

More important details: Few people inhabited the rooms, but her presence always made an impression. People assessed her, albeit momentarily, before returning to their business. In the chambers of the Main Palace, that was a good of a hint as one could receive. She was a topic within the Palace. Did this spell doom? Or opportunity? Katarina was inclined to predict the former. Many people entered the Main Palace and never came out. She had first-hand experience to back up the fact.

It came no surprise to her that The Chamber was filled. The heart of the empire, where all business was brought up and executed, where all great politicians rose and fell. A single circle of light filled the center of the enormous room, and the walls were filled with seats, hewn from the rock. The Noxian elite, the bankers, the judicators, necromancers and technophiles resided in the room… and many more to fill in the gaps, rising stars in whatever field gave them the status to find the favor of the High Command or an elite of the Upper District. They sat on the balcony, on the stands, stood near corners and in groups, vibrating and moving as a mass, with multiple discussions and arguments fading in and out. However, like the room itself, they were mere distractions, no matter how dynamic they were. There were more important matters to address.

Darius was one. Standing at the edge of the circle of light, his back obscured in shadow while the rest of his figure was covered in the brightness. On the ground next to him rested his famous axe, with his right hand gripping its handle, keeping it from crashing to the ground. His presence spelled out that the matter at hand was important, one that Swain did not want to lose his grip on. The Grand General's authority was in full display with his right hand man on the scene.

Vladimir was another figure, well in the shade, almost resting upon a pillar that he stood next to. His bright white and red clothes set him apart from the rest of the dark and silvery crowd, along with the arrogance that he foolishly broadcasted without care. His attendance signified that what would happened in this session would be an amusement, something that was out of the ordinary.

Draven was opposite to Darius, standing outside of the circle of sun, arms crossed and a lazy complexion, carefree and admiring. As always, his eyes was towards the crowd, to the faces of the people, fixating on the ladies and glazing over the men. Katarina knew the look well, she had seen Draven where that look in the pit many times. It was his way of anticipating his audience, preparing for the show. His appearance meant there was to be an execution.

After Draven, the guards and figures standing close to the disk of light. The guards stood behind the people, indicating that the people were prisoners. The condemned? She recognized some, others not as well. The ones she did recognize made her all the more concerned, threatened and vulnerable.

Finally, the Grand General. He stood in his robes, slightly askew from the center of the circle, hands resting on his cane, his crow perched on his shoulder, stagnant like a statue. Most would mistake it for a prop, but Katarina could see the malignant black crimson glow in its eyes. He was the only one who was watching Katarina as she entered the grand arena, and his eyes caught her glare the moment she inspected him. Swain seemed to sense the crow's thoughts, and was the second person to assess her. Once Swain was sure he had her attention, he began to speak directly to her, in a voice that overcame the noise of the room.

"Katarina Du Couteau, thank you for being so quick to arrive. The matter at hand is important, crucial to Noxus and the strength of our state."

Katarina did not discard her façade, retaining her solemn, obedient demeanour as she immediately knelt to the ground, one fist connecting with the stone, and the other resting on her knee.

"I live to serve."

"And you will."

Swain looked towards the figures who lay concealed in the darkness. Without a word, the order was received. The guards pushed the figures into the limelight, each on the very edge of the shadow.

"Step forward." The Grand General commanded her.

Katarina stood up and stepped forward into the circle, with no guards hovering over her shoulder. It gave her a taste of hope, but she would not let her emotions betray her. Composed as ever, she waited for Swain to present his ultimatum.

And he did, beginning by addressing each of the figures who stood in the light with him.

"Darren of House Marse, Tori of House Frau, Pridge of the Bankers Union, Mark of the High Command, Katarina of House Du Couteau, and Tycho of House Aleks. All that have been named, stand in the light with me. All have been accused to high treason, conspiring against the High Command. "

As the crowd swelled with speculation and astonishment, Katarina reflected on the individuals who stood next to her, accused and standing on the threshold of death. All were stone-faced, although Tori appeared to have no blood left in her body, skin as white as a funeral shroud. Pridge held a look of fury, his eyes trained on the balconies, searching for someone. Darren and Mark were seasoned fighters, true Noxians. Katarina knew them well. They took their sentencing with blank faces, sullen but determined to retain control over their dignity. None of them uttered a noise.

Tycho, no matter how fearsome his namesake, was a child, close to manhood but still too thin and too soft of face. It was a morose thought: House Aleks was one of the first to be purged when Swain first took power, their fate had been all but sealed to Katarina. The house had been close to the Darkwill lineage, separated by blood alone. Their fate was obvious. Any Tycho's she once knew she considered dead, so young Tycho's presence was a simple ghost of a once honored house.

Swain continued.

"Our nation's security has never been so called into crisis, especially with such convoluted accusations. There is too much evidence to ignore, but the finger does not differentiate. All could be implicated, or there could just be one conspirator."

Katarina blocked out the frilly alibi, the annoying excuses and fancy sentence structures. Swain had hunches, no evidence. All he needed was the fact that everyone gathered in the circle were dissenters and protesters of Swain's power grab. Even if he did have any evidence of anything criminal, he no longer bothered to present evidence after the second wave of arrests. He was in control, and there was no justice that could be found in The Chamber. The evidence, the excuse for this show of force was meaningless to her. What mattered was the sentence.

"With this in mind, I cannot rightfully sentence these figures to simple execution. All have performed valiantly in their respective services, and have brought victory and honor to Noxus. For them to be cut loose with no chance at redemption would be immoral."

Katarina felt her inside face grin with a maniacal sort of indignity. The carrion eater calls shots on what is moral and what is not?

Alongside her bitter thoughts, the speech ended:

"And thus, I give them a chance at redemption. A duel to settle the score, and the one who emerges shall no longer be burdened with this accusation. All who die today will die honorably, with no stain to their name and legacy, and our nation will move beyond these trying times of cowardice and strife."

There was silence now, a pallor that was visible in the air, clinging to the mites and specks of dust that drifted perpetually downward from the light. There was the sound of swords and daggers being procured, as the prisoners were given their lifelines. Tori received her daggers, Pridge a mace, Darren a claymore, Tycho a shortsword, and Mark his scimitar. Katarina had brought her weapons, and she let her hands wrap around their respective hilts, and then pull them out of their scabbards.

"No magic allowed. Are the combatants prepared?"

The question was rhetorical, only to serve as a warning that at his word, Swain would end the lives of five, and toy with the fate of the sixth.

It was a blessing to Katarina, though. In the calm, she was able to focus on her breathing, letting the air caress the walls of her throat, bringing peace to her core. Katarina let the air go free, and with the vapor she expelled any vestiges of hesitation, any trace of weakness or sympathy that may have lingered within as she focused on her first target.

"Begin."

Pridge was the first to move, lashing straight out towards Mark, his closest opponent. Mark, a seasoned fighter, simply shrugged off the attack by taking a step back, but instead of responding, chose to focus on Darren instead with a lunge and a feint. Tori took advantage of the opening and lept at Pridge, daggers present. Tycho was a child, and as a child, he misinterpreted Tori's advance as a threat. He scrambled backwards, retreating to the edge of the light. A guard shoved him back in with a shove from his shield.

All of this, in the first seconds. The desperation was deep, Katarina could see, and so it would be relatively quick bloodbath. She was prepared to react, but as strange as it seemed no-one attempted to cross blades with her, intimidated by her presence. It garnered a sense of curiosity and amusement deep within, and so she patiently watched for an opportunity to present itself.

Pridge used his mace to keep Tori at bay, but his frustration was evident as he knew he fought a losing battle as long as he was on the defensive, with the assailant beginning to weave around his weapon and draw blood with her knives. Brash and determined, Pridge charged forward with initiative, reaching out at Tori with his left hand and his mace primed for a swing. Tori retreated to late, and despite her knives cutting deep into Pridge's outreached arm, he fell on top of her, forcing her into a wrestle.

Katarina became quite disinterested by their tussle at that point, with the victor decided, and instead began to assess Mark and his duel with Darren. The two Noxians played a very different dance, clashing blades whenever the opportunity presented itself. Darren, reserved, swung his massive blade only when Mark made an error in his positioning, never allowing the man to weave around and attack him from the side. Mark chose to deflect Darren's blows and tried to counter, clearly preoccupied in making sure that no-one else was going to try and sneak in an attempt on his life.

Katarina knew Mark was the most skilled, and his patience and clarity made him a hard target to kill. Darren would have to do then, since although he was younger and stronger than Mark, he was too caught up in his duel to recognize the threat she posed.

She began to walk in a semi-circle, skirting their conflict as she picked up on Darren's mannerisms. A strong, torso swing would be his reflex, and with a well-timed leap she would be able to slice at his throat, but before she could close the gap Tycho had foolishly intervened.

A foolish notion, hoping that Katarina was somehow absorbed and distracted, he lunged forward at her heart. Never would have nicked her skin, since she had recognized his attack before he even began to step forward. Katarina sidestepped the attack, momentarily confused with the lack of a follow-through. Confusion turned to disappointment, then to a sick form of pity when he parried her response, backing out of range. His shortsword remained momentarily over his right shoulder where he had deflected her shiv, then slowly turned as it crossed the center of his body. His retreat slowly continued, as if he was pleading her to choose another opponent. Someone screamed in the heat of the moment, but Katarina wasted no time on the distraction.

Though Katarina did not want their encounter to end, fate was on Tycho's side. Darren, losing patience, made a large swing, forcing Mark to leap back, almost directly between the fleeing Tycho and the advancing assassin. Katarina tensed, as did Mark, both of them anticipating the other to act, but by then Darren had already recovered and resumed his stance, aware of the new position he had put himself into, two duelists cutting into another fight. Tycho's eyes darted here and there, looking for someone else he could possibly surprise. He retreated to the farther reaches of the circle yet again, allowing Darren and Mark to relax and slowly move away from Katarina. Some would call it cowardice., but it was the intelligent decision.

Katarina decided to change targets. Pridge was struggling to get to his feet, nearly stumbling over Tori's body. His victory was achieved when he gouged Tori's eyes, who was most likely behind the cry of terror, but Pridge's triumph was empty. Although Tori was pinned down, she had managed to stab at Pridge's gut with her one free dagger. Bleeding, his defense was in jeopardy, and everyone in the chamber, save for maybe Tycho and Darren, knew it. Red faced, his eyes focused on Katarina as she approached, inhaling loudly as he prepared himself for one last stand.

It was a brash and determined move, leaping forward and taking the initiative as best he could, bloody left hand reaching out to pin her and his mace at the ready. Katarina had seen it coming miles away, and unlike Tori, she was not fearful of Pridge's strength. She ducked past his hand, and one of her daggers preemptively deflected the mace before it could gather momentum, as Katarina collided into Pridge with the other. In a second she lept back, yanking her blade out of Pridge's throat without any strain, and the blood spilled out like a cracked bottle of wine. Pridge nearly collapsed, his free hand reflexively rushing towards his throat, in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. By then, Katarina was already moving forward once more, exploiting his impulsive movements to end the encounter. Her blade stabbed through his eye-socket cleanly, while her other arm kept his mace at bay. Pridge, caught in a bind, with blood hemorrhaging by the second and a cranial injury too severe, convulsed and fell to the ground, defeated.

Somewhere in the darkness, someone let loose a holler. Katarina made a mental note regarding that voice, undoubtedly the person Pridge had been looking for beforehand.

That person's time would come.

Katarina stepped back, uninjured but soiled by Pridge's blood, re-assessing the fight once again. Mark's patience had finally paid off, with Darren lying in a pool of blood, lacking a head. Judging from the corpse, Darren had been nicked on his flank and had reacted too quickly, allowing Mark an opportunity to finally close the distance. Tycho quivered in the corner, shortsword at the ready, expecting the worse.

Unfortunately, Mark was unharmed by the clash with Darren, and his skill at the foreign weapon would be a hassle. Katarina knew that his stamina had been weakened, and she would easily take advantage of that. The standoff was interrupted with Mark squinting at Tycho in a peculiar fashion, and the kid began to face Katarina.

An alliance. Predictable. As suave as Mark was with counters and parries, he was still outmatched by Katarina, and both of them knew it. For the moment, she allowed the two to slowly advance, moving around to the edges of her periphery and try and squeeze her into the boundaries of the arena. However, after a certain distance Tycho's approach slowed, wary and unwilling to make the first move, instead hoping that Mark would.

Might as well hope for the sky to fall: Katarina had no qualms with the position she was in, and she was not going to give away initiative. As dangerous an alliance seemed, Tycho's inexperience was also Mark's weakness. It just required some finesse to exploit.

First, she swiped high above Tycho's head, teasing out a fearful swing of the sword. Mark jumped in to punish and prevent Katarina from taking advantage of Tycho's fear, but Katarina skipped out of his range and threw one of her daggers straight at his leg. It stuck, although Katarina felt the air slice down her cheek and down to her shoulder, a reminder of how close she had pulled the maneuver. Mark went down on his knee, in pain and taking the defensive. Katarina touched the ground, just within the boundary of light.

Tycho realized his error, but was too slow- as expected- to take advantage of Katarina's risky move. She was able to resume her assault on him, with her remaining shiv clash with his sword, every blow pushing him back across the battlefield, over Pridge's corpse. Katarina heard the clatter of metal as Mark ripped his blade out from his leg, and dropped low, swiping Pridge's bloodstained mace from the ground. While Tycho nearly stumbled over Tori's miserable little figure, Katarina twirled around to engage Mark for the last time, just as he brought down his scimitar.

Mark had been goaded by Katarina's faux preoccupation, and the lunge towards her gut missed by centimeters, testament to how close Katarina had allowed him to approach. Following her pivot, Katarina slammed the mace into Mark's elbow with the centrifugal force adding to the swing. The following crack and roar of pain was a bother that ended all too quickly as Katarina crept close to Mark despite his attempt to escape, and with her remaining dagger smoothly opened his throat. The blood spilled on the dusty-white canvass, sputtering out of the warrior ceaselessly, as he slowly kneeled to the ground and collapsed, face first.

Katarina let the mace rip out from the man's elbow before letting it fall to the ground, recovering her missing blade from the ground where Mark had dropped it. The warrior twitched, almost trying to stop her, but he remained relatively still. Both blades back in her possession, she turned to the last remaining threat.

Tycho was probably confused as to what his next step would be: He had done everything but fight in this grisly trial by combat. He would not get a chance to redeem himself. Katarina took it as practice, working on how to manipulate a short-sword in motion for the largest openings. Tycho put as much as he could into controlling his weapon, but it was a pointless struggle. Every attempt of his ended in another bloody wound as Katarina subjected him to a death by a hundred cuts.

Despite his miserable last stand, the end was even less glamorous. Bloody hands made his grip slip, fumble, and terror made Tycho disengage, hands open and in front of his face. Katarina just slipped the dagger past his ribs and into his heart, and as his face contorted in a visceral, intense fear. Part of her wanted to cut his catariod to quicken his descent into the bliss of unconsciousness, but it was unprofessional for someone to desecrate the defeated, add insult to injury. She let him sink and sputter to the ground, terrified and hopeless, all fight gone.

There was silence in the room, but everyone in it knew the battle had run its course. Katarina wasted no time in kneeling to the ground herself, bowing her head in admission towards Swain. She could sense a puddle of Tycho's blood slowly beginning to encircle one of her heels, and Swain stepped back into the arena, flanked by guards.

"And so the contest is at an end. Katarina, you honor has been proven to be unblemished and faithful to the High Command. We no longer require your audience."

"As you wish, General." Katarina replied with all of the sincerity she could muster. The stillness in the room created a surreal setting as she quietly stood up moved to the exit, blood moist and congealing on her clothes. Guards parted before her, silent yet judgmental, just like anyone else. The unease followed her like a shroud, smudging all of the details from her vision as she strode through the doors and out of the palace. However, she would not let mere feelings distract her: She saw how the people looked at her and the blood that splattered over her figure, measuring their reactions. Most simply avoided eye contact, a tell-tale sign of frustration: they were hoping that she would bite the dust in the duel... For good reason.

Quickly, out into the bright sunlight and then suddenly into the moody darkness of the mansion. She was drained, and was back to square one. Swain was satisfied by the offering of blood, but until he called on her or issued her an order, she was still consigned to this informal house arrest. Nobody came to greet her, a shred of good luck that Katarina took happily. She disappeared towards the sparring grounds, intent on keeping her skills polished, forgoing a shower or bath. She preferred the grime and crust anyways- the added sense of authenticity made it easier to focus.

Swain came for her in the dusk of the evening. She had just dressed after getting out of the shower, finished with her chores, forging knives and practicing. Talon and Cassiopeia were absent when she answered the door.

"Katarina Du Couteau?" The man in the center commanded, sword at the ready, flanked and backed up by at least six others. All wore obsidian-black chestplates, dark and fluid: the staple of the elite guard. The streak of steel at the centerpiece of the man's breastplate signified that they were the elite, the Palace Infantry.

"At your service, gentlemen." She responded calmly, her mind rather blank, unable to handle the thoughts that rushed towards her consciousness. Where was Cassiopeia? Was there a sign she had missed? What could she have done wrong?

Is this actually happening? Was the one thought she kept on repeating as she allowed the man to grab her by the shoulder and pull her out. The chains were restrictive, painful, as tough as the roughness of the men who jostled her into submission.

"To the Obsidian Gallery with you."

Katarina could only shake her head and smile. Of course Swain's word was rotten. Why did she even bother believing it? She surrendered without any protest, no longer expecting justice. It was gone the moment Swain had taken power. She calmly led the way out, past the gate and into the street, bracing herself for pain.

"Do not resist." The guard hissed as he yanked her chain, despite the fact that Katarina made no effort to hamper their march. But it didn't matter. They wanted to do this.

The first blow was clean through her cheek, forcing her to the ground, shattering her teeth. There was scarcely a sliver of laughter, but she knew they were smiling as they roughened her up for the dungeon, the first time they had ever subjugated a Du Couteau to their brand of justice. She curled up and did her best to withstand the kicks and the stomps, grinning to herself the bitter irony that this was how they would draw blood from her, glad that she was able to deny the Chamber the sight of her red ichor. She showed them no pain, no weakness, only her good humor in a reality where men would cry, piss and beg.

But she was mortal, and with one carefully planted blow to her nape, her vision swam, her arms faltered. Another steel-tipped toe to the temple, and she let the darkness take her, a bloody grin still gracing her lips, a mask that hid the fury deep within.

She had not expected this.

End Chapter 1