Night stretches its cold fingers across the black-stone ramparts of the Noxian stronghold. The torch flames flicker, casting long, warped shadows across the carved basalt walls. The air is thick with the scent of ancient incense—faintly sweet—and the iron tang of dried blood, ever-present in the capital of conquest.

At the summit of the Raven Tower, a room has been prepared—not for war, nor for politics. But for something far rarer: a private invitation.

The floor, a polished obsidian marble, gleams under the flickering glow of suspended, enchanted candelabras. A long, darkwood table stretches through the center, dressed in deep crimson and black. Plates of dark porcelain, utensils of moonlit silver. A single ancient tapestry hangs overhead—depicting a war between shadows and light. Perhaps a prophecy. Or a memory.

The double mahogany doors creak open without a single hand touching them.

Jericho Swain enters.

His presence is heavier than the armored footfalls that echo with every step. His mechanical leg hums softly with each motion—precise, deliberate. The red cloak trails behind him like blood unspilled. Perched upon his shoulder, or rather phasing between shoulder and shadow, is a black-feathered raven—his second sight.

Swain pauses beside the table. His eyes survey the chamber—one human, sharp as a commander’s blade; the other, burning faintly with an unnatural red glow, glimpsing beyond mortal truths.

From the folds of his coat, he places a worn tome bound in scaled leather onto the table, between two plates.

A gift? A warning?

He turns toward the arched balcony. The curtains part as if obeying his will. Beyond them, the moon hangs full and vast, flooding the chamber with pale silver light. Its glow strikes the edge of his face, casting half into light... and half into something far more unknowable.

Swain lifts a glass of dark wine—thick as blood, smooth as oil. The glass catches the moonlight like a blade in a silent duel.

Swain low, resonant “Even gods must hunger, I imagine. And not only for flesh... but for understanding.”

He pauses. The raven tilts its head, mimicking his curiosity.

“Tonight, let power observe power. No masks. No veiled threats. Only wine... and truth.”

He steps away from the balcony. With a mere gesture, the opposite chair glides softly from under the table—an invitation, not a command.

“The moon watches those who lie... and those who dare. I, Jericho Swain, fear neither.”

He sits, hands folded over the arcane tome. Silent. Expectant.

The only sound in the room now is the gentle rasp of the raven’s feathers and the quiet crackle of floating candlefire.

He waits—for you, the Goddess of the Moon—to either accept the invitation or remake the night in your image.