As They Bloom

9 - The Plan

You look through the parchments, squinting to decipher Yone's hastily scribbled notes. His handwriting is elegant, but hard to read. Especially when he switches from writing in the common tongue to Ionian half-way through.

"There are only three Yánléi in the village," he explains, tapping one of the notes. "Two of them are acolytes. Young. Inexperienced. They didn't seem like warriors to me. More like children playing pretend."

"And what of the third?" you ask.

He scowls slightly. "He had his ichor tattoos. I doubt he'll be an easy opponent."

"Ichor?" You raise an eyebrow. He nods, taking in a deep breath.

"It's the negative, chaotic magic filtered out by the Quinlon dams around Ionia," he says softly. "Magical waste, if you will. But dangerous all the same. The Yánléi enhance their powers with it. It's the source of their shadow magic."

You think back on the Yánléi who pursued you in the forest. The way the air chilled, to the point it was suffocating. It reminded you of a different kind of dark magic...

"Is this magic the same as that of the Azakana?" You ask Yone. He thinks for a moment.

"It is similar," he says. "Both are borne of negativity, after all – one magical, one emotional." He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I've also met merchants and travellers that told me stories of a living nightmare haunting the lands around Demacia. I've reason to believe it's an Akana – a full-fledged demon, who lurks in the shadows."

An exasperated laugh escapes you as you shake your head. "Is that what they're aspiring to? To bring forth another living nightmare?"

"I think they're desperate," says Yone matter-of-factly. "From what I understood, their master does not know of their current doings. They're trying to prove themselves to him by gaining enough power to stop the Noxian battalion." He scowls for a moment, looking visibly disturbed. "I don't think they realise they'll be unleashing another wave of Azakana if they succeed. Nor of the role the Mother Tree plays in keeping them at bay."

"When is the battalion due to arrive?"

"A month," he murmurs. "They move slowly."

A groan escapes you. "A month," you echo him. "We don't have a chance, do we?"

"Some things may be out of our control. But that doesn't mean we can't ease other's burdens." His eyes gaze deep into the flames. "There's nothing we can do about the battalion. We are simply too few. But we can still save the villagers. Once the Yánléi are dealt with, we can evacuate them all to the Garden of Dreaming, where they'll be safe until after the Noxians have moved through. We can avoid the loss of life."

"Do you have any allies we can call upon?" you ask him desperately. The thought of allowing the Noxian army to plow through the land, trampling everything underfoot like a herd of oxen, is abhorrent.

He shakes his head, a sigh escaping him. "No. Everyone I knew is dead. Or thinks I am."

"And if I so much as talk to another Noxian, I'll be imprisoned as a traitor."

He smiles to himself. "It's less than ideal. But let's not worry about things beyond our control for now. Our duty first and foremost is to the villagers and to the garden." He digs through the papers, giving you one with a delicate sketch of a young woman with long dark hair and tired, blank eyes. Beneath the sketch is a long list of notes in the common tongue.

"One of the acolytes," he explains. You skim through the notes. 'Female. Late teens? Hasn't said a word. No tattoos. Potential magic? Wants to avenge parents – died to first invasion." Your eyes drift down to the last note, hastily scribbled, and your heart sinks. 'Room goes cold whenever she's in it.'