A/N: Hey all. Glad you're still reading! Four quick (and actually relevant) notes -

1. This is an interlude chapter. I wanted to experiment with some other characters and their voices and switch the format up a little bit, so this chapter is divided between Darius, Quinn, and Fiora. I wrote some for Vayne and Garen and Cassiopeia and a little bit for Katarina too, but those didn't fit with the direction I wanted so they're not included. I thought about cutting the Fiora bit because she's still the hardest character for me to write in this, but I really needed to address a couple of her plot threads before they got left behind sooo yeah (also, a reviewer rightly pointed out to me that Fiora thus far has gotten less attention than Vayne - my fault, as I said, I have a hard time with Fiora). This fic is sort of like my baby and I'm enjoying writing it and I thought including some minor character POV with the goal of clearly different voices between sections would be fun (depending on what ya'll think, minor characters may get full chapters at some later date, idk, thoughts?)

2. Continuity with my fic Burials (shameless self-promotion). I bring this up because I've gotten several questions about it in reviews/PMs (and I should probably append this note to the first chapter). I think it's easiest to describe this fic as in a Burials AU with the divergence occurring right after Riven leaves for Ionia. So for the characters of Katarina, Darius, and Cassiopeia, the events of Burials can be considered backstory. However, this fic diverges in that it will not result in Katarina in her office in Noxus reading about Fury Company. It might end with the Noxians in roughly the same configuration they'd be in to set up the beginning of Unearthed (since I tend to write everything from a unified headcanon of background), but I'm not sure yet. This sort of leads naturally to my third note.

3. Pairings and the fluidity thereof. As of right now, Lucian/Senna is the only pairing that I intend to be constant throughout this fic - though obviously Fiora/Vayne is endgame. A lot of my impetus for this fic was wanting to explore Demacian culture and relationships and identity norms, in particular using Noxians (and eventually probably a couple characters from other city states) to contrast and highlight arbitrary cultural rules. As a result, the plan has always been to have several secondary pairings that will shift over the course of the fic. This is why I haven't tagged this fic with any pairing except Fiora/Vayne and why I'm not stating any other pairings because that would be false advertising. The secondary pairings are all going to be shuffling around in the background of the Fiora/Vayne focus. Also, I'm bringing this up now because this chapter alludes to, like, at least three such secondary pairings.

4. As always, thank you so much to everyone who reads this and has stuck with me for almost a year now. You guys are great!

Darius I

The only good thing about Demacian parties, Darius concluded, was that everyone left him alone.

Around the time the Du Couteau sisters had strut off to flaunt themselves about, Darius had found one of the little white couches at the edge of the room, sat down, and there he'd stayed. He was big enough and the couch was small enough that, positioned right in the middle, there wasn't quite enough room for anyone to try to sit next to him.

It was a good couch.

Demacian couches were good couches.

Small. Personal.

Good for being left alone.

Parties in Noxus – no one left him alone there. Lieutenant General Darius this. Lieutenant General Darius that. Men and women, all throwing themselves at him for attention. He wasn't his brother. Darius wasn't Draven. He didn't want to be surrounded by weaker men. And he certainly didn't want to take any of them to bed.

Movement near him – Darius shifted slightly to train a baleful glare on a Demacian noblewoman. Her face went bright red even under all the paint and she fluttered away in a soft whirl of silk and lace.

Women.

Noblewomen.

What utter wastes of food. Weak. Useless.

"Move over."

Startled, Darius jumped slightly, making the entire couch creak under him.

Katarina stood next to the couch, arms crossed, scowling. She scowled more than Darius did. It was impressive. Also impressive – he hadn't seen her approach. But then, she was an assassin. Hiding was something she was good at.

Darius shifted a bit to his left, clearing just enough room for the lithe Katarina to perch next to him on his tiny white Demacian couch.

Assassins.

Darius didn't like assassins. At least the Demacian soldier on the road had been a proper man. He'd attacked the most vulnerable-seeming of the Noxian party, but he'd done it with a sword and courage. Assassins though. They hid around and stabbed people in the back. He didn't like them.

But Riven liked this particular assassin, so for Katarina's sake, but mostly for Riven's, he moved over to let an assassin sit with him on his tiny white Demacian couch.

Reminded of why he was in Demacia, Darius matched Katarina's scowl. Cassiopeia could do the make nice. Cassiopeia had promised that all Darius and Katarina had to do was loom and look authoritative and say yes on behalf of High Command to whatever Cassiopeia told them to.

And then the Noxians in Ionia could come home and go back to killing barbarians and Demacians. And the Zaunites could stay in Ionia if they wanted, but they probably wouldn't want to without any allied foot soldiers left to slaughter.

And if Cassiopeia talked particularly well and Darius and Katarina looked particularly imposing, maybe that could happen before the cowardly Zaunites finished murdering them.

Noxus had lost as many men to their so-called allies as they had to the enemy.

The entire Ionia campaign was an unmitigated disaster.

Proof of why Darkwill was weak.

He wouldn't be Grand General much longer.

And when he fell, Darius would be there. He would take Darkwill's head if he had the chance, and he'd take the heads of all the lesser generals who continued to insist on the Zaun alliance and who continued to send bad orders to Ionia. They'd gotten the bulk of the Noxian infantry trapped in a toxic wasteland with no way forward or back except through lung-eating poisons. The weak generals - they all deserved to die. And they would.

Like the couch, the plan was good. Darius smiled.

There'd been a time when Darius thought he could fix High Command by himself. He'd purged the worst of the rot. But what was left was strong in body, if not in mind or heart. Strange that such contradictory men could exist.

Personally, Darius thought that Jericho Swain would make the best replacement for Darkwill, but he wouldn't complain if Marcus Du Couteau wrested command from the old man. Du Couteau, at least, had proper Noxian values.

But all that was in the future. At present, Darius was stuck at a stupid Demacian party.

"I want to go to bed," Darius announced.

Katarina turned to shoot Darius a bewildered expression. Her un-scarred eyebrow was raised high. "You want to go to bed?"

Darius nodded once. Then he gestured to indicate the ball. "This is pointless," he said. "Frivolous. Wasteful. We've been traveling. I need rest."

"It could be worse," Katarina remarked dryly. She shifted to sit elbow on armrest, hand propping up chin. The very picture of boredom. "You could have your sister here, pretending to be drunk, throwing men and women at you."

A chuckle rose up from deep in Darius' chest. He was thinking now, imagining Draven trying to find bedmates for him. It was normally something of the opposite – Draven trailing him, trying to catch the attention of the men and women who followed the lieutenant general around like a bad stench. No matter how he tried, he could never convince them he wasn't interested. Eventually he'd stopped trying. They weren't worth the effort it took to get his axe.

Katarina sighed loud enough to be heard despite the noise of the ball. A sigh for effect then. "The men here are soft and boring. The women are soft, boring, and perpetually scandalized."

"What happened to…" Darius paused, trying to remember the hundreds of briefings they'd sat through before embarking. "The Crownguard boy. Aren't him and you lovers?"

Katarina snorted.

"He swings a big sword," Darius said. "Your type."

Katarina gave a fluid shrug, graceful in a way that Darius and men like him could never be. But they didn't need to move like that. "He's not bad looking," she admitted.

Darius scanned the crowd, trying to find the Crownguard boy in question. He didn't seem to be anywhere. Darius was sitting down though. Sitting down was not the best vantage of the field. "Have you heard from her recently?" he asked.

Katarina's silence was answer enough.

Darius cleared his throat. Not for the first time that night, the couch they were seated on moaned sadly. "She's strong," he said.

Almost instantly, Katarina snapped, "Of course she is."

Reciting the oldest battlefield prayer of the Noxian infantry, Darius intoned, "The strong survive."

Quinn I

The heat of the city was stifling, oppressive, awful. The white stone buildings and the buildings fashioned from wood that were plastered and painted white and the buildings that might have been white once upon a time – they all crowded one another, jockeying for space that didn't exist. They jostled for elbow room like the roiling mass of humanity they sheltered. Down between them on the streets, hardly a breeze blew. All the summer heat and humidity settled down and sat heavy over everything. Even at night when the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, sweat beaded on Quinn's brow and dribbled down her cheeks to drip from her chin.

"Nervous?" Shyvana's tone could be summed up in a single word: predatory.

Quinn's eyes flicked up from her cards. "No," she said. She had two dukes and the queen of cups. She wasn't nervous, not by a long shot. The other players at the table though, they should be nervous. Not that she'd ever let that on. She reached up and wiped at the sweat on her face with the back of her hand – though it hardly did any good. The air in the guardhouse was thick and still and smelled like a dead cow in a swamp. Too much old sweat, not enough soap.

Did the other players even notice?

Galio was a rock. A majestic rock. With wings. Rock wings. And a nose. A rock nose. Did that rock nose smell the accumulated guardhouse musk? For his sake, Quinn hoped not. He spent far more time all about the wall than Quinn did. She and Valor had seen him sunbathing on the walls quite often, even in the worst of summer noon-time heat, like a great stony reptile. He probably loved the current state of affairs in the weather.

And then there was Shyvana. At least three times that night, the half-dragon had complained that she was cold. Demacia was much too far north for her liking. Could they please start a fire? Shyvana was also a deadly hand at King's Hold, one of the most popular card games in Demacia. Quinn wouldn't put it past the other woman to be surreptitiously using some kind of jungle dragon voodoo to raise the temperature in the room in hopes that Quinn would become distracted and make a mistake.

"When I win this hand," Quinn announced, gambling that Shyvana and Galio would call her not-bluff, "We're going outside. I hate it in here."

"And when I win this hand," Shyvana replied smoothly, "We're playing another so I can finish taking the coat off your back."

"Shirt off my back," Quinn corrected. "Shirt." She corrected Shyvana's Demacian so often she hardly heard herself saying it. Common-born and from the provinces, Quinn was hardly the best person to teach proper Demacian, but there was no one else to do it.

Shyvana tilted her horned head to the side, a movement made comical by how lopsided it made her look. "Is not a coat more valuable than a shirt?" She paused, brow furrowed in concentration. "Or is it that you are not wearing a coat? I had thought that with such a manner of speech it did not matter."

Quinn disrupted the beads of sweat rolling steadily down her face with a shake of her head. "It's a manner of speech and that's why it has to be shirt," she said. "You can't change it around."

"Why?" Shyvana asked.

"I don't know," Quinn said. "You just can't. Ask Jarvan. He went to school."

Shyvana went still, the kind of still that only someone who's going to live a lot longer than a human can ever afford to be. The room temperature seemed to drop – all the confirmation Quinn needed that Shyvana had been… it wasn't cheating to use all the skills at one's disposal, but it certainly wasn't nice or all that fair.

Mentally, Quinn sighed. Hopefully not out loud. She didn't want Shyvana to be upset and to be upset at her.

"End round," Galio declared in his avalanche of a baritone. Daintily so as not to mangle the flimsy paper cards, he laid his out on the oak table they all crowded around. "Three of a kind. A march."

Sitting to Galio's left, Quinn also laid out her cards. "Two lords and a queen," she said. "A coup."

Shyvana's cards hit the table facedown. "Let's go out," she said. "It's too hot in here."

Quinn wasn't inclined to argue. She swept up the brass pennies on the table and dropped them into her small leather purse. Not waiting, Shyvana was already through the heavy metal-bound-wood door that lead up to the battlements of the city wall. Galio lumbered out the front door of the small guardhouse. Out of sight, the thunder of the wind as he launched himself up into the air made the ground shake.

Left alone, Quinn wiped at the sweat on her brow yet again and sighed. How nice it must be to simply stretch one's wings and fly – up above the swelter of the city and into the free air. She made sure that the front door Galio had used was securely latched before heading for the stairs.

The stairs were steep. Unlike the white marble and whiter paint of the rest of the city, the stairs and the thick wall that they were built into were a sandy limestone. The walls were the oldest part of the capital. The old storyteller of Quinn's village used to say that the city and its walls were older than the great houses, that the Lightshields had taken the city not founded it. The Measured Tread said otherwise, but it seemed to Quinn that the truth wasn't always the same depending on where you were in Demacia.

Quinn had to take care in climbing. So many feet had traversed the stairs over the centuries that they'd been worn smooth, even though workers periodically cut lines into the stone to provide better grip for the boots of soldiers. Soldiers like Quinn.

Atop the wall, Shyvana sat with her back to one of the great merlons that formed the crenellations of the battlements. She didn't acknowledge Quinn's approach. Her gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the white towers of the inner precincts of the city glowed with magelight. In those inner precincts, the elite were gathered to celebrate the arrival of the Noxians. Or, celebrate wasn't the right word. Greet? Make a great show of opening the doors for?

The palace and its precincts were the domain of soldiers unlike Quinn.

Even if the far-ranging Demacian Rangers hadn't had such an uneasy relationship with the Demacian Elite Guard who patrolled the white towers, Quinn wasn't born to the glitter of gold and manners that was the custom of the capitol. She didn't feel at ease among the nobility and she had no desire to feel at ease among them.

Quinn sat down next to Shyvana. The limestone actually felt cool, a small relief. As she sat, Galio landed on the other side of the half-dragon. He folded his wings in and took up a crouching position, as if seeking to imitate a true gargoyle. He said nothing. He wasn't really one for words.

Quinn didn't begrudge the Elite Guard any respect on account of their dislike for the Rangers. The Rangers had their place in Demacia. So did the Guard. As a Ranger, she'd tracked the Noxian convoy from the border all the way to the seat of the Crown itself, ranging over long dusty roads and through forests and across rivers. And she'd given her report upon arrival. And now it was for the Guard to investigate in the palace, their home turf. Their home turf where they would be at their most effective and Quinn would be at her least. Elite soldiers of the Demacian army, they would do their duty well.

Quinn hoped.

She could track better than they could, she knew, and this chase was hers. But her post didn't allow her to traverse the inner precinct of the city.

The woman with the roses – Laurent. She'd seemed competent. And she was one of the highest officers in the Intelligence Corps. The investigation was in good hands.

In truth, Quinn had expected the worst when she'd been asked to report to the Laurent estate. The Demacian nobility were… not what she'd imagined them to be, when she was young and dreaming up great adventures with her brother at her side. That the Laurent woman had been interested in Quinn's opinion had been both surprising and refreshing. It had given Quinn hope that she didn't have to feel like she'd left her duty half-done.

A strong wind blew from outside the walls, squeezing through the crenellations of the wall before heading out over the city where it would eventually stagnate.

Quinn inhaled deeply. The wind smelled of grass and earth and wide open fields.

A great rustling of feathers announced the arrival of Valor. Far too large to maneuver down to land on Quinn, he chose instead to perch atop one of the limestone merlons of the wall.

In the distance, the magelights of the palace twinkled.

Fiora IV

As she left the Hall of Mirrors, Fiora heard the heavy clank of armor and the jingle of mail. In an instant, she found herself surrounded.

Four men-at-arms draped in the purple and white surcoats of House Laurent came to flank her, two ahead and two behind. Within the palace, their armor was partly ceremonial and they wore full helms that hid any personally identifying features. Her brother Ammdar, still dressed for the ball, joined her at the center of the posse.

Fiora was less than pleased. She bordered on fury. There were far more important matters at hand than Ammdar's fretting, than his undermining. He was her second. His duty was to serve.

Though Ammdar had been the one to summon the guards, she was the Master of the house and her direction and pace set their course now. Fiora chose a quick tempo, using her long legs to cover significant ground. She wished to move fast, yes, but she was also acting in part out of spite. She resented the presence of her brother and thus she resented the presence of guards as well – she neither needed nor wanted them but she could hardly argue with Ammdar in public. So she contented herself with walking quickly. All the guards being shorter than her and weighted with armor, they would be pressed to keep up without breaking into a jog.

"I require a word with you when we return to the estate," Fiora said tersely. She would say nothing of her purpose, not in front of guards, even her own. And who knew what ears there were in the dim palace corridors.

"Of course, my lady," Ammdar answered, tone equally clipped. Unlike the guards, Ammdar was Fiora's equal in height and had little trouble keeping pace with her.

As they walked, they passed gilded statues of past heroes, adorned with gems and set into white marble alcoves that lined the colonnaded hall. Everyone's feet sounded on the stone floor, but the steps of the guards were especially loud. Even so, anyone who happened to pass by could have heard their conversation.

If Fiora and her brother agreed on one thing, it was the importance of privacy in certain matters. She knew that he knew full well why she wanted to talk to him. And he clearly wanted words with her as well. It didn't take a mind mage for the siblings to read one another.

"The ball?" Fiora asked. It was half a question and more a statement – the ball was where she had left him and where she'd wanted him to stay.

"In vigor," Ammdar replied. "The Noxians appear able to go all night and so shall we."

"Our house?" Fiora continued. As she walked at speed, her hands formed fists that swung back and forth at her side.

"Wondering where you went," said Ammdar. His tone held rebuke.

Fiora did not appreciate it. "I left to fulfill my duty, of course," she snapped.

"Of course," Ammdar repeated. His tone was steady, but his words indicated nothing but suspicion and doubt. Sarcasm, even.

Fiora's nostrils flared. How dare he.

Fiora glanced at one of her guards. If he were stupid enough to be making any sort of expression other than careful disinterest, it was hidden by the heavy steel helm on his head.

In silence, Fiora guided them through the long and mostly empty halls of the palace.

Two Demacians were dead now, and the hunters, all three of them, thought the deaths were connected. But by such utterly different manners and in such utterly different circumstances! The attack on the road – Daveth Crownguard's rhetoric about patriotism and valor had seemed outlandish enough at the time to almost be plausible, even though Fiora's gut had told her to take Luxanna's advice and insist on a more thorough investigation. But this attack, this was on a member of one of the great families and within the palace no less.

And Ammdar chased her across the palace with guards because he thought she valued the honor of the house too little.

There would have to be a full investigation, an inquisition even. Though Fiora wanted to rely on the three hunters – that had been her first instinct – a murder in the palace could not be left to such unofficial channels. Could it? There were no protocols to follow. A murder in the streets of the capital would be a matter for the Watch. They had officers of the court for such matters. They had well established procedures. A murder in the palace though…

No doubt, Daveth Crownguard would -

As if summoned by Fiora's mere thought, the man himself rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor Fiora and her party were traversing. With him, Daveth had men-at-arms of his own, three times as many as Fiora's four. Though not quite running, they were moving quickly, a herd of blue and gold stampeding along.

As the two groups neared, protocol dictated that the Laurent, as the junior house, step aside. And so they did.

If looks could kill, the glare Daveth gave Fiora as he passed would have added another murder to the night's tally. Shadows played across his features, making him look especially old and sour. He seemed to be in an even worse mood than Fiora.

Following after his grandfather, Garen Crownguard gave Fiora an expression that looked halfway apologetic.

It was not a good look for him.

As the Crownguards marched off, Fiora grimaced – something she would never do to Daveth's face. Normally it was beneath her dignity to act so childishly, but in this case she made an exception.

Crownguards…

Fiora raised a hand and gestured for one of her guards to approach. The man glanced at Ammdar, who nodded assent.

One more thing to be taken care of, it seemed.

When the guard was near enough that Fiora could speak softly, she ordered, "Find a court messenger of our house. Tell them to find Luxanna Crownguard and tell her the following, with care, that Laurent would like her to come calling tomorrow when she is able."

If she knew Luxanna Crownguard, and, she'd admit, she didn't, not really, but she did suspect that the young woman would plan her arrival to coincide with Shauna's visit. And then they could all discuss business and Ammdar would have nothing to cluck about, not with the Daveth's flesh and blood in attendance. Daveth himself would be upset, but, as the comings and goings and calling upons of court women was a law unto itself, there would be no true complaint for him to lodge. At times there was benefit in being of the fairer sex. Three birds, one stone.

"Yes, my lady," the guard murmured. He detached from their group and turned down another corridor.

"What was that?" Ammdar asked, suspicious sharp in his tone.

Fiora's response was sharp. "If I wanted you to know, you would know. Now."

At once, she had them on their way again.

Thankfully, Ammdar stayed silent. He was biding his time and likely plotting up his case, but Fiora welcomed the reprieve.

Though she'd come up with a plan to deal with the dead Crownguard quickly, she was at a loss for what to do with her older brother.

Ammdar was the sibling closest to her. He was the brother who'd taught her to fence. And he'd been the first of the family to support her claim to the house. As a result, she'd been relying on him for almost everything. And as a result of that, though Ammdar was the second son, he was easily the most influential person in House Laurent – perhaps Fiora included. Their eldest brother, disputing Fiora's claim to the house, had left for their country estates some time ago and they now heard little of him save for his passion for riding out on hunts.

All that was to say, Ammdar was both her brother and a powerful man in his own right.

In short order, Fiora, Ammdar, and their guards neared the Laurent estate. Home. Fiora could smell the thick perfume of roses, strong about the grounds even at night. Watchmen saw their approach and opened the tall wrought-iron rose-patterned gates. As Fiora and Ammdar entered the estate, their guards peeled away to go back to wherever Ammdar had summoned them from.

Ammdar…

Fiora swept through the courtyard garden and into the main building of the Laurent estate. She took them to her office by the fastest route and, as soon as she'd turned on the hextech lamps and they had both crossed the threshold of the small, cozy, room, she closed the door firmly behind her.

She did not slam it.

The office had been her father's once and he had never approved of slamming doors or raising voices.

But it was Fiora's now, and she walked to the massive desk, slipped behind it, and sat down in the grand carved mahogany seat that belonged solely to the Master of the Laurent. The chair had been specially crafted to match the dark wood paneling and bookshelves of the room. Graciously, Fiora gestured for her brother to sit down across from her.

Stiff, Ammdar complied.

For what felt like a very long time, Fiora didn't say anything. She was still thinking. And Ammdar wouldn't, couldn't, be the one to speak first.

Had there been a candle, it would have burned down a half inch, at least.

Hextech lamps had truly revolutionized working at night.

Eventually, Fiora gave up on thinking. She wasn't getting anywhere and she was tired. The house was hers. She answered to no one within it. She had sacrificed for that right and she continued to sacrifice for it. It was hers. Ammdar would understand that, or, like their eldest brother, he would leave.

"Ammdar, do you intend to challenge me?" Fiora asked.

Whatever Ammdar had been expecting, it seemed that was not it. Surprised, he responded, "What?"

"Do you intend a challenge?" Fiora asked again. "For control of the House?"

Ammdar scowled. "You're my sister. I wouldn't kill my sister."

Fiora flinched. Not considering her reply, she snapped back, "You would not win."

Her brother's face went tight as his lips thinned. The slightest of flushes touched his cheeks. "I taught you to fence."

Struggling not to raise her voice, Fiora answered, "And our father taught you."

Ammdar said nothing to that. Their father's death was a sore topic for them both.

In her lap, Fiora's hands clenched into fists. "Ammdar, how many wives have you have?"

"What?" Ammdar responded. "One. Lucia. You were at our wedding." He crossed his arms over his chest.

"And how many children do you have?" Fiora pressed on. Though she was trying hard to stay calm, her volume was rising.

"Two," he said. "Sophia and little Lucia."

Fiora mimicked her brother in crossing her arms now. She leaned back slightly in the big mahogany chair that was hers as Master of the Laurent. "And how many women did you sleep with who were not Lucia before you marriage?" she asked.

Ammdar's jaw dropped. "What – that's not -

Fiora interrupted, "And how many woman have you slept with who are not Lucia since your marriage?"

There was an audible click of teeth as Ammdar closed his mouth.

"And," Fiora pressed, "How many women have I slept with in my life?"

Ammdar met Fiora's eyes and held her gaze. "I wouldn't know," he said, voice cold. "Unlike my liaisons, yours are improper."

"One," FIora said. "Now you know. I know my duty. I expect you to know yours."

Not allowing her brother a chance to retake the conversation, Fiora pulled open a small drawer in the desk. From that drawer, she produced a heavy silver signet ring engraved with the arms of their house and studded with amethysts. She did not slip it onto her finger. It was far too large for her, made for a man's hand. Fiora laid it on the dark wood between them.

"Tomorrow morning," Fiora began, "You will go to the silversmiths guild with this. You will instruct them to melt it down and to craft another ring for our house. One that will fit my hand."

Her order was met by silence.

Adrenaline pulsed in Fiora's veins, but she didn't allow it to make her shake. Anything Ammdar could do, she could do better. And if he did not show weakness then it was out of the question for her to.

Ammdar's shoulders rose and fell as he took a deep breath. Still keeping eye contact, he didn't blink as he reached for the ring. There was nothing in his face that so much as hinted at submission. Though Ammdar had said he would not challenge her, his every word sounded like a challenge to Fiora's ears. "Yes, my lady."

Fiora matched her brother's tone. "You may go."

Ammdar nodded once and then rose to leave.

When he had left the room and closed the door behind him, Fiora felt herself sag in her great mahogany seat. She'd thought to deal with them, but her problems had only multiplied.