Arcane: Red Sands

-----Two days latter, Shurima------

The sun was just beginning to dip below the jagged skyline of Bel'zhun, its golden light bathing the city in shades of rust and ochre. The noxian garrison, The hulking fortress stood like a grim sentinel overlooking the city. Inside its walls, soldiers bustled about their duties, but there was an undercurrent of unease.

Atop the tallest spire of the garrison, a messenger raven landed with a sharp caw. Its feathers glistened like polished onyx, but its red eyes glowed faintly, watching the world with an intelligence that seemed almost unnatural.

The bird tilted its head, studying the soldier who approached hesitantly. The man extended a gloved hand to retrieve the message tied to the raven's leg, but he paused, unnerved by the way the creature stared at him.

"Get on with it," growled an officer from behind.

The soldier swallowed, his fingers fumbling as he untied the parchment. The raven flapped its wings once, sending a gust of cold air across his face, then took off, its shadow vanishing into the twilight.

The officer snatched the message from the soldier's trembling hands, his eyes scanning the bold, authoritative script.

"Deliver this to General Dorrik," he barked. "Immediately."

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In the heart of the garrison, General Dorrik sat slumped at his desk. The room was spacious but cold, its stone walls adorned with the banners of Noxus—a stark contrast to the warmth of his former home in the capital. Outside the window, the sounds of soldiers drilling in the courtyard echoed faintly, a reminder of his tenuous grip on the city.

Dorrik slammed the parchment onto the desk, his breath hissing through clenched teeth. "Damn her," he growled.

"I take it the news is not to your liking?"

The voice came from the shadows near the door, smooth and cold. The mage, disguised as Lieutenant Gadriel, stepped into the light. Her illusion was flawless, but there was something about her presence—an aura, a chill—that always made Dorrik's skin crawl.

"She has no business here," Dorrik spat, rising from his chair. "This is a political maneuver, nothing more. Ambessa Medarda is trying to claw her way back into relevance."

'Gadriel' tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "Perhaps. But she is no ordinary schemer, Dorrik. Underestimate her, and you'll regret it."

Dorrik scowled, pacing the room. "I've held this city for years, through rebellions, famine, and the Emperor's damn obsessions with finding the secret to Immortality. I won't let her waltz in and undermine me."

The mage stepped closer, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. "And yet here you are, ranting like a cornered beast."

Dorrik froze, glaring at her. "You forget yourself, witch."

LeBlanc's illusion flickered briefly, the faint outline of her true form—piercing eyes and lips curled in a mocking smile—breaking through before settling back into Gadriel's face. "No, General," she said, her voice a whisper of menace. "It's you who forgets. Without me, your daughter would already be dead."

Dorrik's anger faltered, replaced by a flicker of fear. His gaze darted to the portrait on his desk—a small, faded image of him holding a pale infant wrapped in crimson cloth. Briar. His hand trembled as he reached for it, his fingers brushing against the frame.

"I haven't forgotten," he said quietly. "I would do anything to save her."

LeBlanc's smile widened. "And you have. Don't let your pride blind you now. Ambessa is a distraction, nothing more. Focus on what truly matters: your daughter's life."

Dorrik looked up at her, his voice bitter. "And what of Su'Rhaal? You said his blood would save her, but my men haven't recovered a single drop. The rebels haven't attacked in weeks. The captain is untouchable."

LeBlanc's eyes gleamed. "Patience, General. My plans are already in motion. The rebels will move soon enough, and when they do, everything will fall into place."

Dorrik frowned, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

LeBlanc's smirk didn't waver. "I tell you only what you need to know, Dorrik. Do not mistake this arrangement for trust."

Dorrik's fists clenched. "This is my city. My command. If you're hiding something—"

"This is my plan," LeBlanc interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp. "And you are merely a piece on the board. Do not forget your place, General."

The room fell silent, the tension between them palpable. For a moment, Dorrik considered challenging her—but then his eyes drifted to Briar's portrait.

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. "Fine. But if you're lying—"

The mage stepped closer, her voice softening into something almost comforting. "I don't lie, Dorrik. I deliver results. And soon, your daughter will have the life she deserves."

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Outside the garrison, the streets of Bel'zhun buzzed with nervous energy. The people knew something was coming.

The Noxian soldiers patrolling the streets tried to maintain order, but their presence only reminded the locals of the city's occupation. Whispers of rebellion lingered in every shadowed alley, though no one dared speak openly.

A young boy darted through the crowd, his eyes wide as he clutched a stolen loaf of bread. He disappeared into a side street, where a group of malnourished children huddled around a small fire. They tore into the bread with desperate hunger, their laughter a faint echo of what the city once was.

----------------------

Back in his quarters, Dorrik watched LeBlanc as she moved to leave. Her illusion flickered again, briefly revealing the dark, flowing robes of her true form.

"Ambessa will arrive soon," Dorrik said. "What should I do?"

LeBlanc paused at the door, her hand resting lightly on the frame. "Play your part," she said. "Welcome her as a fellow general, but reveal nothing. Let her think this is still your city."

"And if she pushes?"

LeBlanc glanced over her shoulder, her smile returning. "Then remind her why Noxus values strength above all else."

Dorrik nodded reluctantly, but as the door closed behind her, he felt no relief. The shadows seemed to linger, wrapping around him like a noose.

When he turned back to his desk, a single black rose rested atop Briar's portrait.

His blood ran cold.