Far off the coast of the twin cities, Piltover and Zaun, two figures took a brief moment of rest near a quiet bay.
One of them was a tall, dark-skinned man clad in white battle gear, a dirt-stained white cloak draped over his shoulders. He stood over a makeshift table, carefully marking a route across a weathered map, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The second was a tall, dark-skinned woman wearing black and gold battle armor, her own white cloak pristine by comparison. She stood atop a man-made stump, overlooking an unusually large white gun resting nearby.
"The housing's loose again," she muttered, lifting the weapon to eye level and peering along its length. "What did you do to this thing?"
"You'll have it fixed by Mudtown," the man replied with a low chuckle, never looking up from his map. "With the currents and the wind the way they are, we'll reach it in three days."
They continued in silence for a moment, each absorbed in their task, until the woman suddenly froze.
Her eyes flared with an eerie green light.
Like the wind itself, whispers reached her, and her alone.
'The mist is close. Ruination. Viego.'
The glow faded just as quickly as it had appeared. She straightened, her hand lowering from the weapon as her gaze fixed on something beyond the bay.
The man noticed the change immediately. Following her line of sight, his expression darkened into a frown. "The mist…" he said slowly. "It should be leagues away from here."
"Well," the woman replied calmly, resolve settling into her voice, "that just saved us the trip."
Before them, the horizon churned as a massive wall of black and green smoke rolled forward. It crackled with sickly energy, streaks of emerald lightning forming and dissolving within its depths. The mist was so dense it might as well have been liquid, yet it moved like gas, swallowing the shoreline inch by inch.
"Senna." The man placed a hand on her shoulder, concern etched clearly across his face.
She glanced back at him, then offered a small, steady smile. "Hey. We don't run from darkness." She reached down and placed the large gun into his hands.
He took it, his grip firming as resolve replaced his worry. "We light the way."
Together, they stepped forward.
The mist welcomed them.
It swallowed their figures almost eagerly, black and green smoke curling around their bodies like grasping fingers, blotting out the shoreline behind them. The world grew cold, sound dampened, light distorted.
Within the mist, the two slowed, eyes forward.
Shapes emerged.
Lanky figures formed from shadow and rot, dozens at first, then hundreds, their movements jerky and unnatural as they rushed forward in a tide of shrieking darkness.
Unfazed, the man raised one of his guns. At the same time, Senna lifted her hand.
Bolts of radiant light tore through the mist, ripping through the enemy ranks in blinding flashes. Wraiths screamed as they disintegrated, shadows unraveling into nothing.
Immediately after, the man surged ahead, boots pounding against unseen ground as his dual guns roared to life. Light flashed with every pull of the trigger, cutting paths through the oncoming horde as he moved relentlessly forward, clearing space with practiced precision.
Senna followed behind him at a calm, measured pace.
The chaos seemed to part around her. Even as the mist thickened, she continued on, unhurried, and unfazed.
A wall of black mist rose before her, dense and unmoving.
She did not slow.
Stepping through it, she finally drew her weapon.
The massive sword-shaped gun unfolded into her grasp, nearly as tall as she was. The mist thinned as she advanced.
And then she saw him.
He sat atop a boulder as if upon a throne, posture regal, unmoving, as though he had been waiting. His skin was pale as bone, his hair stark white, drifting slightly as though stirred by an unseen wind. A triangular void rested in the center of his chest, hollow and wrong.
Black mist poured from him endlessly, his very presence feeding the corruption around him.
"You don't belong here," Senna said, slowing to a stop.
The man curled his fingers slightly as he regarded her, eyes cold and burning all at once. "I have crossed through death…" He rose to his feet. "And ruination… to get back to her."
He descended from the boulder, and only then did Senna notice the steps carved neatly into the stone, shaped solely for his descent, as if the land itself had bent to accommodate him.
"Return my queen."
"You will destroy this world," Senna said, lifting her weapon and leveling it at him.
It was already too late.
He vanished.
A streak of mist tore through the air, appearing before her in an instant as he materialized again, impossibly close. His hand plunged forward, fingers passing through her chest as if her body were made of smoke.
"She is my world."
The mist surged violently around them.
Senna's eyes went wide with pain and shock as something was torn from her chest.
Like pale blue mist, it poured outward, gathering above the man's outstretched palm. At the same time, a scream echoed inside her mind, raw and desperate, calling her name.
Somewhere behind her, her partner was still locked in combat with the wraiths. It took him a heartbeat too long to realize something was wrong. When he turned, his blood ran cold.
Senna was suspended in the air, held in place by the pale man. Around them, the black mist churned and spiraled upward, forming a slow, unnatural vortex.
Without hesitation, he raised one of his guns and fired.
A bolt of light tore through the air, striking the pale blue mist hovering above the man's hand. The impact shattered the gathering energy, knocking it free.
Senna collapsed to the ground as the grip on her vanished, her body hitting the stone hard. She lay there gasping, exhausted, her limbs refusing to respond.
The pale man turned his head slowly, eyes following where the blue mist had fallen.
Black mist surged around it, coiling and thickening until it formed a solid platform beneath the fading glow. The platform rose, lifting the blue mist back into the air, cradled and protected.
The man began to walk toward it, his steps measured and deliberate.
A thunderous blast interrupted him.
Senna forced herself upright just enough to bring her massive gun to bear and fired. The shot slammed into him, hurling his body off its feet. He skidded across the ground before coming to a stop, mist billowing violently around him.
For a moment, he remained still.
Then he pushed himself up, dusting black vapor from his cloak. His expression had shifted, the cold calm replaced by clear irritation.
Without another word, he resumed walking toward Senna, each step heavy with intent as the mist thickened around them once more.
Senna's partner kept one gun trained on the pale man, his grip tight, even as his gaze flicked back to Senna lying helpless on the ground. With his other hand, he aimed his second pistol at a cluster of wraiths rushing toward him, jaw clenched as he tried to balance both threats at once.
The pale man lifted his hand.
Pale green light condensed, stretching and hardening until it formed a long, spectral sword. The weapon was elegant and unsettling, marked by both an upper and lower guard, its glow pulsing faintly as mist curled along its edge.
Senna's partner hesitated.
His eyes darted between Senna and the approaching wraiths, between the man before him and the impossible choice pressing down on his chest. His breathing quickened. One second. Two.
The pale man moved.
He raised the sword and brought it down in a clean, decisive arc toward Senna's neck.
At the last possible moment, her partner made his choice.
He lunged forward, slamming into Senna with his full weight. The blade cut through empty air as both of them tumbled past the edge of the cliff, bodies colliding as they vanished over the side and into the churning sea below.
The pale man stopped at the cliff's edge, looking down only briefly.
He did not pursue.
Instead, he turned away, his attention drawn back to the pale blue mist, now hovering above the ground in the shape of a slowly rotating orb. Black mist coiled beneath it, forming a raised platform that carried it upward like an offering.
He approached with unhurried steps.
Gently, almost reverently, he rested the tip of his sword against the orb. The pale blue mist flowed into the blade like breath being drawn in, disappearing completely.
"Hm," he hummed, satisfaction threading through his voice.
Black mist surged around him, swallowing his form as he turned and departed.
---
Senna gasped awake, sucking in air as her body jolted upright.
She was on a boat.
Salt stung her nose, waves rocking the vessel beneath her as she struggled to focus. At the helm stood her partner, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed forward.
She pushed herself up and looked back.
The distant cliff was still wrapped in black mist, thick and crawling, an ominous stain against the horizon.
"We have to go back for her, Lucian!" Senna said urgently, panic bleeding into her voice.
Lucian didn't look away from the sea ahead. His jaw was set, expression hard with restraint.
"Senna," he said quietly, "we can't defeat him alone."
---
At the same time.
___The Great City Of Demacia___
"Care to explain what the hell a harrowing is?" Asta asked Shyvana as along with Mira they soared across the sky on his sword, Darryl and Emilia trailing behind.
Shyvana tore her gaze away from the roiling wall of black mist encircling Demacia and looked toward Asta, her jaw tight.
"The Harrowing," she began, voice low, controlled, "is not a single event. It's a recurring calamity."
The wind whipped past them as Asta's sword cut through the sky, the city shrinking beneath their feet. Green lightning pulsed within the mist far ahead, each flash illuminating ruined outskirts and abandoned roads.
"It originates from the Shadow Isles," Shyvana continued. "A cursed land born from a failed attempt to defy death itself. When the Harrowing occurs, the Black Mist spreads outward, consuming everything it touches. Whole cities. Entire armies. Ruining souls."
Asta blinked. "Souls…?"
Shyvana nodded. "The mist doesn't just kill. It binds. Anyone who dies within it risks rising again as a wraith, trapped in endless torment, forced to serve the will behind it."
Asta hummed, eyes narrowed as he guided the sword through the air. "So… angry ghosts?"
"That's a gross oversimplification," Shyvana replied flatly. "But not entirely wrong."
"No," Shyvana said, shaking her head as the wind tore past them, "the issue is that the Shadow Isles lie on the opposite side of Valoran, far beyond Bilgewater. A Harrowing rarely ever reaches this far inland."
Her gaze darkened as she looked toward the creeping wall of mist. "This is unprecedented. We have to warn King Jarvan before it's too late."
Asta shook his head, lifting a hand and pointing toward the coastline below, where a port city rested uneasily by the bay. "That city will be swallowed by the mist in a few hours."
Shyvana followed his gesture, dread settling heavily in her chest. "Havenfall…" she murmured. "Then what do we do?"
Asta's eyes narrowed as he scanned the horizon, calculating. "You transform and head back to the capital. Warn Tianna and anyone else who needs to know." He paused, then pointed in another direction, farther inland. "We'll handle what we can out here. Havenfall isn't the only place in danger. Wrenwall lies that way."
Shyvana stiffened, worry flashing across her face at the mention of the fortress. For a moment she hesitated, torn between duty and instinct.
Then she nodded, resolve hardening her expression. "I understand." She glanced back at Asta, her voice lowering. "But please be careful. An expedition was sent into the Shadow Isles years ago to purge its evils. Those who returned…" She hesitated. "They were never the same."
Asta flashed her a confident grin, unfazed. "You don't have to worry about us.
Asta's grin lingered for only a heartbeat longer before the wind tore it away.
Shyvana studied him for a moment, searching his expression for cracks that weren't there. Whatever doubts she had, she buried them. This wasn't the time.
"Very well," she said. "Don't die."
Asta laughed lightly. "I'll do my best."
Shyvana shifted her stance, scales rippling faintly beneath her armor as power stirred. A light hop, and she was falling from the sky. With a powerful beat of her wings, she peeled away from the group, her form blazing briefly as she descended toward Demacia, a streak of crimson and gold cutting through the sky.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
The Black Mist loomed ahead of them now, vast and slow-moving, swallowing hills and roads alike.
Asta didn't answer immediately. His gaze was locked on the mist, mind racing.
"Alright," he said finally. "Priorities."
He angled the sword slightly, adjusting their trajectory toward the coastline. "Havenfall comes first. If we're lucky, we can evacuate before the mist hits. If we're not..." He exhaled slowly. "...then we buy time."
"Buy time for who?" Mira asked.
"For anyone who can run," Asta replied. "And anyone Shyvana manages to convince."
The closer they drew, the worse it became. The sky above Havenfall had dimmed unnaturally, clouds twisting into strange, spiraling formations. The sea below churned violently, waves crashing against the docks as ships struggled to flee the harbor. Bells rang faintly in the distance, frantic and uncoordinated.
Then the first tendrils of mist reached the city.
They slithered over the water like living things, creeping up the stone foundations of the port, spilling into alleyways and streets. Screams carried on the wind.
Darryl grimaced. "We're late."
"No," Asta said sharply. "Not too late."
Figures were still moving, guards shouting orders, civilians running, soldiers forming defensive lines along the main road leading inland.
The sword dipped lower.
As they descended, a cacophony of shrieks split the air. Dark silhouettes clawed their way free of the fog, bodies half-formed, faces twisted in agony and rage. They surged forward, straight toward the fleeing civilians.
Asta's eyes hardened. "Darryl," he said calmly, "You take point. Emilia's in charge, she and Mira will support you."
"On it," Darryl replied instantly. Mira looked worried for a moment as she crossed over to sit behind Emilia on Darryl's broom.
"Just do what you can do. The best way you know how to do." Asta reassured her.
Asta leapt from the sword mid-descent, landing hard on the stone street below. The impact cracked the ground beneath his boots as he drew the demon dweller, sending a barrage of black slashes into the mist .
The nearest wraiths screamed as they were torn apart, their forms unraveling as even the mist seemed to vanish everywhere the slashes went.
Asta didn't care. He was already gone.
The world seemed to blur as he vanished in a burst of raw speed. Dozens of clusters of wraiths were erased in an instant, their shrieks cut short as their bodies burst apart into drifting particles of shadow and mist. He tore through them like a living shockwave, blade flashing, slashes ripping holes through the Black Mist itself.
In moments, the main entrance to Havenfall was clear.
The cobbled road lay exposed once more, free of creeping fog, though far in the distance more mist churned and gathered, thick and restless, as if offended by the sudden loss.
Asta paused, chest rising as he took in the scene.
He watched as Darryl launched himself into the air, carrying Emilia and Mira with him as they headed straight toward the incoming wall of mist, light and magic already flaring as they prepared to intercept it.
Then Asta turned back toward the city.
A line of soldiers stood ready near the gates, shields raised, weapons drawn, faces tense with the knowledge that they had been seconds away from being overrun. Their formation hadn't broken, even as the mist had approached. Demacian discipline held firm.
One of them stepped forward.
He was a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face and tired eyes, his expression pensive as he studied Asta. "You…" he said slowly. "You're that foreign mage. Black Bulls."
Asta tilted his head slightly. "Are you the one in charge?"
The soldier blinked, surprised, then straightened and snapped a salute. "Yes, sir. Captain Holdrum."
Asta nodded once. "What's the situation?"
Holdrum glanced past him toward the distant wall of black mist. Asta's charge had carved a clean path through it for miles, buying them precious time. The captain exhaled and looked back at him.
"Honestly?" he said. "Things were looking bad for us until you showed up. You have my thanks, Sir Asta."
Asta acknowledged it with a brief nod.
"It's barely been a few minutes since ships started rushing back into port," Holdrum continued. "Even vessels that had just departed turned around in a panic. The Harrowing mist was right behind them."
He clenched his jaw. "I don't understand how it reached this far without any of our scouts noticing. If we'd had even a little warning, we would've sealed the port and begun evacuations immediately."
Asta's eyes narrowed. "So this Harrowing is abnormal?"
Holdrum let out a short, humorless laugh. There was a faint tremor in it, one he clearly didn't intend to show. "The Harrowing is the Harrowing. Nothing about it was ever normal to begin with."
Asta studied him for a moment, then nodded. "How's the evacuation coming along? What's the plan?"
Holdrum frowned, tension creeping back into his expression. "Riders were sent the moment the mist appeared. We're hoping for an evacuation order, but…" He hesitated. "Havenfall is considered a defensible position. If I had to guess, the crown will send reinforcements instead."
His grip tightened on his spear. "With orders for us to hold the line and keep the mist back."