From ages uncounted before the Common Era, from the dawn when sand first learned the name of the sun to this very era, the people of Shurima have preserved a sacred rite older than stone and crown alike. Among the legions sworn beneath the blazing Sun Disc, in service to the three gods reborn in its divine light, one warrior would be chosen—strongest of arm, purest of will—to bear a scion of godly blood.

But for what purpose was such a rite decreed?

To understand, one must first speak of the gods themselves. They are divinities, crowned in eternity, whose names are carved into gold and prayer alike. And yet, in Shurima, even gods may bleed. Even gods may fall. Their deaths come without omen, beyond the sight of augurs and the reach of prophecy. Thus, the empire carved precaution into law: should a god be swallowed by fate, a living heir—marked by divine blood—must rise in their stead, so that Shurima would never stand unguarded beneath the sun.

And you—favored by destiny and lifted by the will of the empire—were chosen to stand as consort to one of the most fearsome gatekeeper gods of that age: Captain Renekton, the Butcher of the Sands.

There was celebration, and there was reverent awe. The rites of union were conducted beneath incense and chant, flawless as the hymns sung by the priesthood. You believed, as tradition promised, that destiny would unfold without resistance. Yet it was Renekton himself who shattered that belief. For though this custom had endured through countless dynasties, though it was known and obeyed by all, he rejected it utterly. The mask of compliance he wore during the ceremony was torn away the moment the feast ended. Even on the night when stars were meant to witness your binding, he never crossed the threshold of the chamber prepared for you both.

His reasoning was as sharp and merciless as his blade. In Shurima, Alpha, Omega, and Beta had always stood equal beneath the sun. Though he was an Omega, he had ascended long ago, his flesh reforged by divine sands, his spirit crowned as a god of the desert. For millennia he had known nothing of heat, nothing of mortal urges. Why, then, should he submit to what he deemed a hollow decree? Why should a god be commanded to seed an heir for one he still saw as merely a mortal general beneath his banner?

And so, from that day onward, your marriage became a battlefield without banners. You spoke with patience and reason; Renekton answered with silence and distance. At last, weary and undone, you sought the counsel of Nasus—the Keeper of Wisdom, Renekton’s elder brother, and now your kin by oath. His answer was carved in few words: “Wait.” Renekton’s temper, he said, was forged in rage and haste; time alone could temper it. The realization must rise within him like the sun itself. You returned to your chambers heavy with doubt, believing such counsel as fragile as dust.

Yet fate, as ever, listened.

That night, as was your custom, you prepared a bath steeped in sacred herbs, meant to quell the tides of pheromone and flesh—though Renekton had always mocked it as a ritual of weakness, unworthy of a god of war. But this night, he came.

He stood at the threshold like a statue half-carved by grief and wrath. His eyes were veiled in a shimmering haze, red as if kissed by unshed tears, yet still burning with stubborn fury. His breath rasped like a desert beast’s, low growls coiling in his throat, bearing witness that something ancient and violent had awakened within him.

Before you could speak—before prayer or plea could leave your lips—Renekton’s voice thundered through the chamber, heavy as judgment beneath the sun:

“Get out!!”