K’Sante wipes his forehead, his bloodied fingers catching sweat and dirt. He stands with his back hunched, and wounds fresh, but still towers over the tensome attackers surrounding him. Beside them, fallen bodies lie baking in the Shuriman heat—all crazed followers of the Ascended who’ve been seeking K’Sante’s death.

The remaining zealots raise their swords. K’Sante sees glints of light on their blades. He knows the sun is watching overhead, its gaze awaiting his next move. He entertains the thought of dying here and spits on the ground. It was a simple ambush. He hadn’t become the Pride of Nazumah just to perish in the very savanna where his ancestors had overcome even grander foes. These were raiders at best—lost in some deranged sorcerer’s delusions of conquest.

The zealots holler and charge, shrublands echoing the rumble of their feet. K’Sante watches their movements. There’s no strategy here—only bloodlust. He grits his teeth, and, despite his battered legs, a bruised chest, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, braces himself.

Metal clashes against metal. K’Sante’s ntofos block a lethal slash. He growls as he pushes against the zealot’s blade, the weight of his own weapons working in his favor. K’Sante had constructed them with that in mind, their hefty rectangular structure built from cobra-lion armor—one of the strongest materials in all of Shurima.

A zealot sneaks in with a sword and slices K’Sante’s cheek. He grunts from the pain and shoves his ntofos into the foe he’s blocking, causing them to collapse, then swings his weapons in an arc, striking the zealot who’d cut him. He chuckles. Somehow, slaying a Baccai seems easier now than fending off wave after wave of the Ascended’s zealots.

“Kill the nonbeliever!” cry his enemies. “The Magus demands it!”

K’Sante has many words he wishes to say about Xerath, but telling the Magus’ followers would be a waste. They’ll soon join their companions, unable to pass on any messages, and he’d rather speak to Xerath himself to let the Magus know it was he who slayed the Baccai abomination. To think the Magus, a self-declared “god,” would create a cobra-lion to terrorize innocent people...

K’Sante’s stomach churns in disgust. His people, his culture—they are his pride. And, unfortunately for the Magus’ followers, that pride fuels his survival. Eyes forward, he grips his weapons tighter as his enemies push their assault.

The zealots plunge toward him, attacking from all angles. How many are there? Four, five, six? His vision fades in and out—maybe due to heat, maybe due to exhaustion—and he steps forward, but his right knee buckles beneath him. Using his ntofos, he steadies himself and blocks strikes from above and below. His enemies are piling against him, now. They must think he’s hit his limit.

Hardly.

With a roar, he knocks them back and hefts himself onto his feet again. But before he can retaliate, three arrows fall from the sky and land dead center in three zealots’ throats. Stunned, K’Sante watches his foes stagger and gasp for air before toppling over.

“Take them out!” a voice commands.

K’Sante turns, seeing a tall, armored warrior wielding a bow and leading three other archers, each nocking fresh arrows. They wear matching patterns of green and gold, but the leader’s face is hidden behind an ornate mask.

“Worry not, Nazuman,” the leader says. “We are no friends of the Ascended.”

K’Sante glances at the arrows stuck in the dead zealots’ bodies. “I see that.”

The leader laughs. His voice is warm and rich and somehow familiar. K’Sante can’t see the man’s face, yet is reassured.

The zealots rush once more while K’Sante’s unexpected allies gather together.

“Ready, Nazuman?” the leader asks.

“Always.”

K’Sante slams down his ntofos. The ground before him ruptures, sending cracks rippling through the dirt and gravel surging upward from the impact, which knocks back the foes closest to K’Sante. The ntofos’ outer layers shatter. Their now-exposed centers shimmer in the sun, revealing twin obsidian blades. K’Sante reverses his grip and aims the sharpened edges ahead. He knows he only has a brief time before his weapons regenerate their defensive coating.

K’Sante leaps forward. Mustering all his strength, he uses his momentum to spin midair, heaving one leg across his front to land a devastating roundhouse kick on three of his foes. As they tumble back, he lands with a thud and slices his ntofos across their chests, tearing through armor and flesh.

The zealots scream.

K’Sante’s allies roar.

A hail of arrows falls around him, blocking the zealots who’ve flanked to his sides.

“Take no prisoners!” the leader declares.

K’Sante nods. Red runs down his face—whether it’s his blood or his enemies, he isn’t sure. With clenched teeth and furrowed brow, he pushes ahead, thrusting his blades into the hearts of his enemies. One by one, they fall.

When the dust settles, the zealots lie still, finally among their previously fallen companions.

“It is over,” the leader observes, satisfied.

“Yes,” K’Sante says. “For now.” He stands upright, but just barely, his face and body stained crimson. The ntofos in his hands begin to regenerate as he stares at the lifeless zealots’ bodies.

“You haven’t changed one bit, K’Sante,” the leader says.

K’Sante looks up. Mask now in hand, a smiling face looks back. It's an expression K’Sante assumed he’d never see from this man—from Tope—ever again.

“I’m sure you have questions. But for now, come with us.” Tope gestures loosely into the distance with his hand. “Our camp is nearby, and you look dreadful.”

K’Sante can’t stifle his strained breathing. Even though he’s unsure, the idea of rest is too enticing. K’Sante nods slowly and takes a step closer, but the world spins around him, and he collapses to the ground.


When K’Sante wakes, he’s lying on a wooden bed beneath soft blankets. He runs his fingers along the verdant threads, feeling their gentle, sinewy fibers—a trademark of Marrowmarkan fabric.

The tent overhead shields him from the sun’s heat, but he can still hear the bustling camp outside its walls. Iron being forged, steel being hammered—sounds that remind him of his own weapons. K’Sante quickly scans his surroundings and, to his relief, sees his now fully regenerated ntofos leaning against the bedpost, polished and cleaned. He studies the cobra-lion inlay along their sides, images he carved and painted himself based on some of Tope’s old drawings. He wonders if Tope noticed. Would he say something, even if he did? What if Tope made the wrong assumption? That was years ago, after all. K’Sante tries to remember. Exactly how long has it been?

“Two whole days,” a voice says. “You were out like a baby armordillo.” Dressed in a Marrowmarkman tunic of greens and golds, Tope stands by the entrance of K’Sante’s tent, his arms crossed. Seeing his grin, K’Sante offers a half-smile in return.

“No mask today?” K’Sante asks, sitting up.

“We both know, had I not been wearing a mask, you wouldn’t have let me help with those zealots.”

K’Sante opens his mouth to protest, only to close it again with a sigh. Despite his recent efforts to curb his more audacious tendencies, he knows there’s still truth in that statement.

“Word spreads fast,” Tope explains. “Over the past few months, the Ascended forces have encroached farther south. I expected them to be by the savanna. And I expected Nazumah to send its finest. What I didn’t expect was to see you. Just you. Fighting twenty-plus of their soldiers.”

“I thought I could take them.” K’Sante stumbles out of bed. He grabs his armor from beside his weapons and grunts as he puts it on, his body aching everywhere.

“Of course you did,” Tope mutters under his breath. “And I’m sure you would have.” He shakes his head. “Well, if you can walk, you can eat. Why don’t you thank me over lunch? I won’t have the Pride of Nazumah returning home on an empty stomach.”

K’Sante gingerly follows Tope out of the tent. Before him, the camp stretches wide. Warriors spar and restring bows, and among them are some faces he recognizes from Tope’s rescue party. Nearby, chefs stir various cast-iron pots. K’Sante smells something comforting and familiar wafting out from one of them: Cassava, yams, and cornmeal. And from another, tomatoes, onions, goat meat, and peppers over rice.

Tope pulls a couple chairs up to an open table. A young man wearing armor two sizes too large rushes over with filled glasses.

“Palm wine?” Tope offers.

K’Sante is tempted. It is the favorite drink of his home. But, he passes. He wishes to keep his mind sound for wherever this conversation might lead. “Water,” he answers. “Please.”

Tope beams at the attendant. “You heard the man.”

The young man scurries off.

“So,” K’Sante asks, “what do they call you here?”

“King or Lord, mostly,” Tope says, face static. K’Sante hesitates. Tope slaps the table with a grin. “I’m joking! You think, after all these years, I’d crown myself like a mad Ascended?”

“I don’t dare guess what your aunty might think,” K’Sante says.

“Oh, that woman would have me disowned,” Tope assures. “Publicly—so our ancestors would not be offended,” he explains in his aunty’s voice.

K’Sante chuckles.

“That’s no joke.” Tope continues, chuckling in tandem. “Your parents would do the same.”

He pours water for K’Sante and himself as the attendant returns with two plates of food. K’Sante’s stomach growls at the sight of peppered rice, dyed bright orange by spices, with fiery scents steaming off its top.

“Please,” Tope says. “Dig in.”

As K’Sante eats, he examines Tope and the surrounding camp. Everyone here seems happy, even amid warfare. Laughter travels from nearby people exchanging battlefield tales. Men and women come and go, offering their well-wishes as they jog between stations. The atmosphere is busy and driven, but whenever Tope asks for more food and drink, it’s delivered without complaint.

“Looks like you’ve made it,” K’Sante observes.

Tope sips his wine. He then raises an arm and motions to the rest of the camp with a sweep of his hand. “Yes, leading my own band of fools. So far, no one’s removed me from command. Can you believe it?”

“You’re too stubborn for that.”

“Does the cheetah call the leopard spotted?”

Both men smile. K’Sante notices the roughened edges on Tope’s face—marks of age and a few scars. Are they new? Or were they part of what he failed to notice before? K’Sante searches for something. Anger, sadness, pain? His body stiffens with guilt. He continues to eat and glances around the camp, the busy clamor filling the pause in their conversation.

“Commander,” Tope says. “That’s what they’re supposed to call me. I don’t like it, so I command them not to.”

“At least you’re not the Pride of Marrowmark,” K’Sante says.

“Ha! That title always fit you better than it did me. Say, I hear there’s going to be a celebration in your name?”

K’Sante humbles himself. “Uh, yes. At Hunter’s Hall in Nazumah.”

Tope looks impressed. “Right where we used to train. That’s fantastic! Your mother and father—I assume they’re going?”

“I couldn’t drag them away.”

“I would like to see you try.”

K’Sante chuckles.

“When is it?” Tope asks.

K’Sante swallows another bite of peppered rice. “It’s next month. The first weekend.”

“Oh, right around my wedding!” Tope chirps cheerfully.

K’Sante wavers, searching for words. Quickly, he smiles. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” Tope smiles back, unaware of K’Sante’s fluster. “Looks like we’ll both miss each other’s special occasions.”

K’Sante chuckles again. After all these years, Tope still has his wit. That’s what had attracted him to Tope in the first place. How, in their interactions, there was always laughter. On hunts, at dinner, in bed. The timeless parts of their romance were the joys they shared.

K’Sante misses it. And yet, he knows it was the right choice for them to separate. That final cobra-lion hunt—it broke them. They were young. They were strong. And they couldn’t agree on anything. That’s the funny thing about pride. Sometimes, it reveals the worst version of your best self.

Out of all the things K’Sante expected, the last was this meal with the man sitting across from him. But he isn’t unprepared. Years ago, he had promised himself that should this day happen, there would be no blame. The past was the past. In fact, he’s more curious now about the present and the future.

K’Sante stares up from his food. “How did you two meet?”

“Ah, funny story,” Tope responds. “I met him at school.”

“School?”

“Yes,” Tope says, then pauses. “After the cobra-lion, I went back to Marrowmark. Back to school. You know that I always loved studying the intricacies of combat. So, I took a couple years to learn everything, such as strategies from faraway cultures. Noxus, Demacia, and those cold, sad warriors in the Freljord.”

K’Sante feigns surprise. “And that was enough to convince them to make you commander?” He exhales through closed teeth with exaggerated gravity. “War really does make people desperate.”

Tope snickers. “I’m glad you’ve not lost your humor.”

He leans back in his chair. “We’ve both come far, K’Sante,” Tope observes. “From two young hunters with... What did they used to call us? All talent, no discipline?”

K’Sante nods. “Now we’re some talent with some discipline... sometimes.”

Tope laughs, loud and free. K’Sante is reminded of the warmth of that booming sound—how Tope always made those around him feel accepted. K’Sante sighs, relaxes his shoulders, and, for the first time during this meal, he too leans back against his chair.

“You know, I never got the chance to say this,” Tope begins, “probably because I didn’t believe it back then, but now... I'll regret it if I don’t. So here goes.”

K’Sante watches Tope pick at his nails before he continues.

“I’m sorry,” Tope finally says, sitting up tall. “I didn’t support you back then. During the cobra-lion battle, I mean. At least, not the way you wanted. I hadn’t realized what it meant for you to—”

“No,” K’Sante interjects.

He’s thought about this conversation many times over. A few years ago, it was the only thing he could think about. Rehashing what he felt, and why. Then, later on, it started to come up less frequently and felt more like a lesson. A reminder of how their relationship had evolved him, and how it allowed him to finally acknowledge the damage his pride could do.

It took him even longer to understand that, even now, his pride is a force—one that drives off others and turns tides in battle. In love, it is... not so different. Killing enemies is straightforward. Resolving conflicts is not.

These days, K’Sante hasn’t thought about this conversation much, if at all. Again, he certainly hadn’t expected to be having it now, but all those years spent thinking about it allows him to say what comes next.

“No,” K’Sante repeats firmly, and sits forward. “I hurt you.”

He exhales. “Yes, the cobra-lion was damning. And yes, it meant everything to me to slay it—to prove that I could be Nazumah’s greatest warrior. But I didn’t need to do it in a way that belittled you. In fact, I used your notes. You discovered it was Baccai. That’s what allowed me to finish what we had started. For that, I’m grateful.”

K’Sante looks down at their plates, both half-eaten. A sign of deep conversation. His eyes rise to meet Tope’s. “I could’ve been a better partner to you, too. And for that, I’m sorry. I truly am.”

He senses the cool desert air on his skin as he watches Tope’s face soften. The sun must’ve set. When it dropped from the sky, he can’t recall.

He takes a breath and smiles. “But you should also thank me.”

“Oh?” Tope says, amused. He sips his wine as he considers K’Sante. “And why’s that?”

“By doing what I did, it seems I’ve helped you in both your career and your love life.”

Wine spurts from Tope’s nose. He throws his head back, howling with laughter. It’s contagious. The merry sounds of both men intertwine with nearby campfire songs and dance.

“That pride of yours,” Tope says, “has never truly gone away.” Smiling and sighing, he wipes droplets of wine off the table. “It is your greatest strength, and I, for one, think the Nazumans are lucky to have you. In times like these, there is no better Pride of Nazumah.”

K’Sante sits back and enjoys the wide, open evening sky. He had imagined this conversation going a million different ways. Seeing Tope’s success, hearing his acceptance, and feeling his maturity—coupled with K’Sante’s own growth—is a relief.

He grabs the pitcher of palm wine and pours himself a glass. “And no better commander of Marrowmark.”

“Then let us toast,” Tope declares. “Ascended, empires, or beasts—”

“None shall threaten our homes while we still stand!”