Fiora's League Judgement [Fanfiction] [short] [complete]

I know the Institute of War and summoners are no longer a thing, but I began this piece before the lore was changed. I've always enjoyed reading the League Judgements, and thought it was a bit of a shame they stopped after Varus.

So I wrote one for Fiora. One of my favourite champions, with some interesting history. I took some liberties with her lore -- which is quite relevant to this story, so if you need a refresher, here it is, quoted from the Wiki:

Fiora, Demacia's most notorious duelist, earned her fame with her sharp blade and sharper tongue. She boasts the refinement of an aristocratic upbringing, and a fierce devotion to the perfection of her craft. Having surpassed her peers at home, Fiora now seeks greater foes. She will settle for nothing less than the world’s acknowledgement of her mastery. As the youngest child of House Laurent, a family known for its long line of elite duelists, Fiora considered herself destined for greatness. She longed to match the skill of her father, a legendary swordsman, and her talent quickly surpassed that of her siblings. Fiora's peers perceived her confidence as arrogance, but she dismissed them, striving even harder to become a worthy successor to her father. Her devotion turned out to be misplaced. On the eve of an arranged duel, authorities caught Fiora's father slipping a paralysis poison into his opponent's drink. His treachery destroyed the family’s reputation, and Fiora's own honor fell under question. Outraged and desperate to clear her name, she challenged her father to a duel. Though he fought with power and style, Fiora realized the man had long forgotten the discipline that defined a true duelist. She disarmed him, and with her blade to his chest, she demanded control of House Laurent. Her father surrendered, but even in victory, Fiora knew the shadow of doubt still tainted her reputation. Intent to seize her destiny, Fiora vows to surpass her father's false legacy and prove that she is not only the greatest duelist in Demacia – but all of Valoran.

And here begins my story. I would really, really, really appreciate feedback of any kind. Thank you!

OBSERVATION Many champions stopped to admire the Great Hall, with its vaulted arches and marble gates. Fiora did not. Her head was held high, for she was a Laurent, and Laurents did not gawk. Her every step was measured, her body as taut as the blade on her belt. Darkness surrounded her, but she was unafraid. As long as a blade was by her side, she was invincible.

Despite her bearings nobody would confuse her for a soldier: hers was not a crude greatsword forged for warfare, but a thin and elegant masterpiece by a master Demacian blacksmith. Her fingers were immaculately trimmed. She smelt faintly of rosewater. Precision and grace: words that described her beauty as well as her swordplay.

Surveying her surroundings, a slight smirk began to curl on her lips. For all its glory, the League Judgment was but another test, and Fiora has never failed a test.

REFLECTION If war is a dog pit where people bet on the biggest, most bloodthirsty hounds, then fencing is chess. A noble’s game, won before the battle is even fought. Preparation, knowing your opponents, and fast reactions were paramount.

So, of course, she had prepared well for this test. Illusions, she told herself, even as the scene around her changed and gradually settled into somewhere she knew well. It was impressive, the details they got right — for a moment she almost believed it. The creak of the floor as she shifted her weight; the dry smell of the air; the austere, almost religious silence. It was the Laurent’s fencing chamber, bare except for a rack of neatly polished fencing equipment lining one wall. She has spent more time here than in her own bed, and the room has tasted much of her blood and tears.

A small cough came from behind her. This illusion, too, resembled the man in reality: tall, firm, with calloused hands and grey hair around his temples.

“Father,” she said curtly.

More than anything else, he had always been a stern swordsmaster. Her first present from him had been a sword; not a wooden blade that children played with, but made of copper, blunted and balanced like a real weapon. But she had never resented him — it was impossible to. He had been a paragon, the finest fencer Demacia had seen. It was thanks to him that House Laurent could walk with their heads held high amongst the Crownguards, the Lightshields, and the Buvelles.

Yet the last time she had seen him, she had put a blade to his chest, declared his crimes, and demanded for the right to rule the house. He had relinquished it almost immediately, like the coward he was, and Fiora had smiled bitterly as her hero crumbled, defeated, before her.

It was natural they would pick this moment for her judgment, she thought. It has played in her mind a thousand times, both in dreams and waking moments. She had screamed at him, on that day —Have you no honour? What happened to your teachings? Here, though, there were no need for words. Fiora raised her hilt to her mouth in a cold salute. Her opponent did the same.

“En guarde,” said Roland Laurent. He lunged. Fiora parried easily, turned her blade a half-circle, went for the wrist to force a retreat. He danced backwards, his legs shifting into position, and advanced again.

Did they presume they could surprise me? She knew this battle. Every thrust and every step were exactly the same. But it can’t be so easy, she thought. There must be more tricks. She sharpened her mind, while allowing her body to relax into the familiar motions.

“I did what I must,” her father said, suddenly. “House Laurent needed a hero.” “Pah. You think you’re a hero? Ridiculous.” “Not me, Fiora.” And a twisted grin began to grow on his face. “You.”

It took a second for the weight of the words to set in. “What?” “Oh, yes. Did you honestly believe you could defeat the finest fencer in Piltover at the age of sixteen in a fair fight? It was necessary for you for build confidence — no, arrogance.”

Parry, thrust. His steady voice were quite at odds against the frantic clashing of the blades. “And you were so happy, Fiora, your first victory… I could see the conceit growing in your eyes. You’re talented, of course; a prodigy. But skill, my dear, does not count for anything in this world without the intelligence to — apply it correctly.”

It was like the teachings he had always said, delivered in the same stern voice, but the words were twisted. Parry, thrust. Fiora’s head was spinning. Her hands felt weak. This is a feint — designed to trick her into overextending, making a mistake.

“I didn’t cheat all your matches, of course,” her father continued. “Only the ones that really mattered. But,” Parry, thrust. A ghoulish smile. “Do you know which ones?”

There it was. A momentary pause — she felt it even as her blade sliced through the air, a second too slow. It was enough. Her father knocked her sword aside, and in one fluid motion struck her hand. She cried out in surprise, maintained her grip, tried to retaliate — too late, as Roland advanced and stepped onto her lowered blade. She heard it snap even as the shock reverberated to her bloody palm, and suddenly, his sword was at her chest.

This isn’t how it was meant to happen, thought Fiora dizzily. Her back hit the wall. He continued speaking.

“The prodigy defeating her old, dishonoured father. Joining the League to restore the family name. It makes for a grand story, no? And thus you surpass me. Always plan one step ahead, dear Fiora.”

One step ahead. That was it. Always plan. Always have three contingencies up your sleeve. It may just be an illusion, she remembered faintly, but she refused to lose.

The blade hovered pinpoint still over her heart. She knew if she attacked with the broken sword still in her hand, he would run her through in a second. What, she thought, would a coward never expect?

So she took a step forward. His sword dug lightly into her chest, and even as she gritted her teeth in pain, she took vicious satisfaction at the surprise in his eyes. With a flick of the wrist she threw the broken blade at his face, watched him leap backwards to dodge it — she refused to cry out even as his sword tore out of her — and she ran forward, ducked his wild swing with a roll, picked up the snapped tip of her blade, and pierced it deep into his stomach.

She felt the man’s muscles convulse, felt a spray of his blood on her hair, and then he was gone in a cloud of grey smoke. A second later, the room faded with him. She knelt alone in the dark hall, panting, as the pain disappeared from her body.

A moment passed.

“Why do you wish to join the League?” Intoned a deep voice. The ghostly echo filled the room. “To… to restore glory to the Laurent name.” “Why do you wish to join the League?” “To match my blade… against the finest Valoran has to offer —” “Why do you wish to join the League?” The voice was steely. Dispassionate. And Fiora’s voice rose to a shrill scream. “Because I need to know I can!”

She could hear her voice echo through the chamber, down the corridors. Suddenly she felt drained. She wanted to collapse, but she could not. She was a Laurent. So, instead, she stood, returned her now-pristine blade to its sheath, and straightened her hair.

The voice continued, from the darkness. “How does it feel, exposing your mind?” “Distasteful.” said Fiora. “Uncouth.” The summoner said, “We cannot create with illusions, Lady Laurent. We could only warp what is already there.” “That is appropriate. The only person that could defeat me is myself.” She scowled. “I suppose that means I pass the judgment, then.”

In answer, the gates in front of her opened solemnly. There was nothing but darkness within.

She flexed her fingers. Her sword was by her side. Slowly, the contemptuous smirk returned, and Fiora Laurent strode into the League of Legends.