Chapter One: A Vision Comes

Jericho Swain trudged up the stairs leading to the highest sanctum of the Immortal Bastion. Often a man would see his left hand retracted into the shade of his cloak, but alone and unaccompanied by Darius's legionnaires, he could afford privacy, so he let his left arm, the one clad in scarlet daemonic enigma, to uncloak him once had had arrived at the door of his room. It was the sanctum seated at the pinnacle of the Bastion, where the ravens roam, umbral lords to their firmament.

Swain had grand objectives, often hiding 'neath the quiet stares that foreign lords and Noxian stewards seldom took for lack of attention, yet his personal chamber had naught a semblance of them. Granite walls unadorned and floors unpolished, Swain paid these no attention. He had a place to set his footwear, a wardrobe, a balcony, a bed, a bookshelf, a study table, and a cage for his soon-to-be pet bird, all arranged in a circular space which was heavily under-furnished and under-decorated that the distance between his belongings were significant. But that was what he wanted. Only what he needed. Only what was practical. He was no Darkwill.

After slipping off his boots, his cloak, and his formal garb, he wore naught but a tunic and his belted leggings. All that he removed, were the impressions appropriate for his legions, stewards, and diplomats, none of them existing in this room. Here, he donned the mantle of a civilian, of a man at the brink of old age, with his ambitious youth raging against its dying light. But even that was a shell.

I have been wearing these beneath all day, he thought, and not long, he removed his tunic, unbuckled his belt, and shrugged off his leggings, until he had but thin loincloth covering the barest of him. He pulled open a door of his wardrobe, and stowed away the civilian garments. A mirror was affixed to the opened wardrobe door, and as he unknotted his loincloth, there he caught a man in the middle of a routine, with his naked, battle-branded form exhausted from a day of internal politics, gatherings, diplomacy, and sporadic morsels of visions. Nigh-pallid was the dwindling radiance of his skin, unlike the emberous flesh of his left hand, like a part of him unrealized.

He remembered a time of bravado, where looking at his conditioned stature was a cause for a smile, and where seeing his female comrades bite their lips was a reason for esteem. But these days, he'd simply look away. He found that his words and thoughts did him more good than his body. Besides, he had long forsook his own image for the image of something greater: a nation risen above all; one that was determined to achieve domination at all costs.

He took his black sleeping robe, wore it, and closed the wardrobe doors. With bare feet, he walked to his balcony, jutting into the night sky, yet somehow still above all.

Yes, domination. Noxians need it. He was not exempt. And each had their own way of satiating that need. Darkwill had his debaucheries, Darius, his battles; and Draven, his executions. Many often wondered how Swain exacted this intrinsic need. Some say he found it in the success of a well-planned strategy; or in every Noxtoraa built by the war-masons; or in the status of being the de facto leader of the Trifarix, or in whatever else exaggeration the rumors prattled on. But among those, what he personally liked, was that the mere position of standing at this very balcony, atop all of Noxus, its people, and institutions, was what gave him his fill for domination.

Yet that was still wrong. However reserved, wise, and modest he may seem in such revered a tenure, Jericho was the most voracious of all Noxians, and he made no pretense of it on this balcony, of which he stood not to feel the gratification of status but to see the horizon which Noxus was destined to tame. His visions would lead them there. His visions were fate. They gave him secrets, and secrets were an absolute power, for both him and Noxus.

He leaned against the granite railings, cold against his palms. Noxus Prime was a field of winking vermillions rendering onward into endless night; braziers flaming, street-torches glowing, and candles embering. The wind moved the flowing silver of his hair before it traveled down into the bare spaces beneath his sleeping robes. Even in the night, he felt Noxus's restless spirit and saw all that it needed: stability, survival, power, and a glorious future. He saw all that it was and was not; all that it could and could not; and, all that it had and had not.

He saw everything, like a raven at his perch.

And there came one, a crimson star from the moon, first a blip, then a groove in the black sky. It carried with it new visions. Jericho had readied himself for it, having not spent time in his study first, for this raven required much of his hours this night, for it was not one sent to Noxus, but to the greater powers who had the potential to oppose it.

As it neared, flapping its ethereal wings, Swain let out his left hand. "Here." he said, and watched the crackling hell-sparks of its talons connect with his wrist. "What have you for me?"

The raven blinked all six of its eyes, cawed a line of incomprehensible whispers, and melted like yolk into his left arm. Swain closed his eyes. The energy which was a passive murmur within his hand roared into his head like a surge of fire. Into the lightless canvas of shut eyes, the energy manifested spaces, sounds, and people; a theatre with its scenes ripped from reality by his raven's talons, in lands far away.

A vision; long and intricate flashbacks of intelligence which the raven observed. Unlike the ravens he would send to Noxus that were always in close proximity, this particular raven's memories needed to be absorbed in one lengthy instance, for it had traveled far. Jericho liked to think of it as an entertaining trance.

Reflected upon its reddish eyes, there towered spires of perfect symmetry so high up they could not smell the fumes below. Piltover. Swain thought. A city dubbed a beacon of progress and opportunity. But Swain knew better. Underneath the ever-rising metropolis, children maimed each other for scraps; lungs of infants turned black with the toxic Gray; and the fate of Zaunites were tied to three things: labor, experimentation, and an early death. It was only fitting for a nation that manufactured battle-gear in the way farms produced grain. It was a haven for arms dealing and war-profiteering, that the poorest of their people suffered to produce, while the richest of Runeterra enjoyed, not excluding Noxus.

It was general knowledge amongst his command: Piltover is a faux-meritocracy ruled by wealthy oligarchic families, clansmen, whose conflicts and influence are felt from the zenith of the spires to the pools of the Zaunite factories. Whatever power one has, was what one's wealth can afford, and wealth passed through blood was greater than wealth earned through sweat.

So Swain found this no surprise, that Piltovians outnumber Zaunites in ballrooms and thrones, while Zaunites outnumber Piltovians in assembly lines and cemeteries.

All those below toil for positions those above are born into, a feature of the aristocracy he had struggled to vanquish over Noxus's conscience.

But a masquerade of dynasties among hopeful subjects.

The raven flew higher and higher the pristine Piltovian towers of commerce and education, and Swain was not at all surprised that his raven would search here. It flew, passing by the command hubs of airships, bridges of hextech, grand screens of Piltovian advertisements, throngs dressed in elegant garbs, and houses filled with Zaunite servants; details so redundant that Swain found this mundane.

Until blood splattered. A Zaunite and a Piltovian in formal attires were both dead, their spines split open beneath the massive gears of a clock tower. Their bodyguards shared their fate; a mess of weapons, augments, and organs across the floor. Their wounds were the likes of great-axes swung overhead.

A shadow glided. The raven followed and saw it fire hooks from its hip, allowing it to swing from wall to wall, building to building, and tower to tower. No gunfire nor augmented blasts followed it. No sirens rang nor fingers pointed. She left no witnesses as she left the district.

Jericho could not restrain a smile. All that he had seen was but an introduction to this all, and ravens were not sent for such things. They soared for secrets. And he was going to have hers, the most powerful woman in this nation.

Camille of Clan Ferros.

He remembered her, she was part of the visiting Piltovian Archminister's retinue. She did not have her blade augments at that time, but her words were articulate as they were sharp and succinct, and she was among the few who had caused him many a considerable pause before his next sentence. She presented a strong case on behalf of the Archminister whilst remaining amicable: Noxus was good for business.

But a Piltovian and a Zaunite organizing a movement for better working conditions was not. It was to expose the shortcomings of Piltovian factory owners, most of them clansmen, and demand them to reassess their policies and answer for alleged ethics breaches. It was not good for business. It was a threat to Piltovian power. That meant a balance had been upset, so, like clockwork, Camille realigned it, garnering favor for her clan every time she did so, hook by hook, target by target.

The raven had continued to follow her. Her role as a "designated enforcer" had the status of an open secret among the powerful, and though many did not know it, it was not valuable to Jericho. He knew there was more. His ravens had an instinct for it, and like worms in thick grass, they will find them.

And the raven uncovered what he needed, after Camille had temporarily replaced her augments with her realistic leg prosthetics to visit a certain relative: a little girl of her clan, whom she adored every day through expensive gifts, innocent activities, and harmless banter over cups of tea. To her, she spoke softly, with patience absent from most exchanges the raven followed, and she'd act as if a mother: teaching her to dress properly, to follow manners, and to read and write. When there was no need to kill or to negotiate, she was here, in this little girl's room.

The secrets were rarely obvious, but Jericho had learned to master comprehending them.

What if the girl knew Camille's role? He imagined the personal consequences for her, and the likelihood of her yielding to his demands without even needing to speak of politics. Like so many others, her weakness was a truth she could not bear to reveal. Fortunately, the raven was relentless in finding it.

Excitement rushed over him like wildfire. A feeling that lathered his skin, that forced his lips to curl, and his mouth to water. This was domination. He had all the knowledge, all the capabilities, all the strings to hold the Piltovian lady in place. He observed her haughty, condescending, and somewhat dismissive attitude through her raven's eyes, how she was known for her impatience and demand for perfection.

What a pleasure it would be to put you in the most imperfect position, in a place where all your towers fall apart, and where all that you've shoved below penetrates the barriers and mingles with the pristinity you've so protected.

What he felt, it was lust. It was animalistic. It was irrational. It was youthful. This was Jericho's secret: a desire to dominate women in powerful positions by holding their most precious secrets hostage. It was the symbolic equivalent of causing a nation to totally submit without having to battle them, the greatest form of military victory. Indeed, the joy of seeing them bend over to receive him was equivalent to witnessing the bows of all a conquered nation's people.

His visions of a grand empire paralleled the demands of his body. Both depended on his power over vital information.

The vision of his raven was not yet over. He had it follow Camille into her quarters, a grand room where all was organized, save for the clothes she lazily tossed into her hamper for the machines to handle. He watched as she slid her silken stockings off her pale and tremendous, skull-crushing thighs. Though she was augmented, most of her bodily functions continued, including sweat, which coated her athletic litheness as she peeled off her combat suit until her supple breasts dropped down. Not long, the automatic showers washed her in a surge of warm water.

He had a compelling urge to reach down himself, and savor all he saw within these visions... To himself, his demonic hand was painless warmth, a stimulation of what was come, and he gripped its dormant fury over his shaft as he returned to the vision of her, and imagined that he was there, looking down upon the electric blue of her eyes while her wet, Piltovian lips took his girth rigorously, his hips grinding against her face, oiling her throat, bringing out her spit to ready his shaft for the tight cradle between her breasts where a percussive mingle of sweat, spit, and exotic perfumes against his groin would-

A knock on his door.

He flicked his hand away, tumbling his manhood back beneath his robe, and let out a disappointed breath to steam out of his nose.

"Jericho, I have the-" It was Darius, still in his armor, prepared for his legion's late-night drills. He cleared his throat. Having whipped straight by the abrupt entrance, Swain did not move, but his member did, flaccidly. He learned this well: when they suspect nothing, let them speak first. "I thought you would be getting ready to sleep at this time. Did I interrupt a vision?"

Jericho turned to him, each second pressuring him to relax his stiff— and steadily unstiffening— after-reaction as he faced his fellow trifar. "No, I," he cleared his throat, "you did not come to interrupt anything." Darius appeared to be holding a scroll, and it took a moment's staring and awkward glancing at Darius's stoic countenance that Jericho readied his own composure and answered as the Grand General: "What's this?" he said, walking towards his fellow general.

"Scribal transcripts of the Archminister and his retinue's statements this evening." Darius said, taking a step further into Jericho's room, the door closing behind him. "I was going to deliver your copy personally."

Jericho rose a brow. "And why? Was there something you noticed during the discussions?"

"No. There was no one else who could be sent to your chambers at this time during your visions, so I decided I be the one to give it to you."

It was Darius's intuition, not martial prowess, in even the smallest matters that Swain found most useful to all trifars, even if their alliance had been fresh, so he nodded his head. Darius had defected from Darkwill's allegiance of his own accord. His initiative was precious beyond value, but not always convenient . "I appreciate that you've given it to me at the soonest time, Darius, but a little note, it would be safer for both you and me not to open my door and call out my name as I am having my visions." Then he looked away, "there is no telling what could have happened if you had entered at its climax."

"I understand." Darius's eyes floated down. "We should have such transcripts be done quicker, that these situations be avoided."

"Our archival processes are another matter. Darkwill left us with much to repair in his hedonistic wake, and our records are just one of many."

"And among those were the Piltovians unrequited trust. They forget that we are unlike Darkwill. Shows how little our politics matter to them."

"I disagree, Darius." Jericho said, and wondered how quickly he had gone from pleasuring himself to discussing politics. "They trust us more than Darkwill. We are a newly reformed nation with ambitions that stretch beyond oceans. It would be in their interests not to provoke war with us, for they are in a shoddy position that discourages them from taking risks: a city state with no hinterlands to retreat to, and that means, if they lose one battle..."

"They lose everything." Darius completed, nodding. "Hm. I can accept that."

"We will have to. So long as we are the largest beast within this forest, they will sharpen our claws that we don't use it against them, so let us accept their trust, and remain their greatest threat."

"Very well. We should speak more of this tomorrow, with my brother to listen."

"Of course, of course. I will be sharing you my visions by then."

And with a parting word and a reminder of Darius's nightly drill of his men, the fellow trifar left his chamber. When the door shut, a quiet sigh lifted Jericho, and he softly withdrew into his bed. Darius's intrusion drained his libido for tonight, and with the inclusion of stately affairs into his words, his thoughts kept daring to think of them, and not of his plan to subjugate Camille. Still, he had her visions within him, and they were perfect memories he could return to. He would study them, note the useful details, and know where his leverage lies. She was no noblewoman of a petty kingdom. She was the equalizer of Piltover and Zaun, the hand of the Piltovian Archminister, and a true challenge.

As he lie in bed, he had already begun to design how she would submit to him. He had the power. He had her secret.

And he would have his first grand conquest, and the pleasure of equal magnitude, and though he imagined the surge of completion he'd feel, Swain thought it would not be enough. Like Noxus, he would not be so easily satisfied with one victory.

AN: This was a trashy idea I had while reading about Swain's thing for secrets. This is basically Swain, the esteemed Noxian Grand General, blackmailing powerful ladies from sovereign nations with his demon ability for sex and subsequently using their secrets against them, like he would with his political opponents and Noxus's enemies.

I've never written League erotica before, and I don't like the idea of that being my main thing, but here's my shot at it. I had an idea of turning this into a sexual allegory about the exploitative/manipulative nature of politics in totalitarian societies and how Swain'll make Noxus great again: securing arms deals with Piltover (Camille), exploiting the Freljord situation (Ashe, Sej, and Liss), stunting the rebirth of the Shuriman empire before they become genuine competition in the superpower business (Sivir), and putting Bilgewater under Noxus's pocket to bolster its naval capability (MF), all of this having the end goal of defeating hostile nations like the Demacians, Ionians, and the Rakkor (Fiora, Irelia, Karma, Leona). Also, dealing with the internal conflict to make things easier for the birdman (Le Blanc) . This is smut, but I guess it's now sYmBoliC sMuT, but no joke if I continue update this, I'll likely input the mentioned characters as potentials.

I just want to see how this idea'd fare for now, being my first try. Expect a lot of political intrigue from all the power dynamics of the characters, and the personal backgrounds to add up to the context of the smut. Don't expect anything extreme but do expect some dark turns, given that this is all about manipulation and politics, but there'll be nothing too over-the-top.

I would really appreciate criticism. Sexual writing isn't really my thing and this is somewhat an experiment and practice for the event that I do a little bit of lemon in a non-erotica story. Thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: I do not own League of Legends or any of its characters.

Response Edit: Thank you PlainPurplePanda for the correction. I did some quick researching, and you are absolutely right. I edited the errors. Thanks again :).