Legends of Runeterra

They walked along the bridge, with huge guardian statues watching them silently. The cold wind swirled into vortices, whipping and howling mercilessly.

This bridge has many names: Trial Ground, Murder Bridge, and others. But others simply call it Keepbridge, or the Howling Vault. If it had a name in the days of the Three Sisters, it has been lost. Among the Frostguard, it is often called the Bridge of Sorrows. After all, thousands of Iceborn have perished here.

The bridge is so ancient that it is said that the Old Gods built it. Of course, the age of those gods is long gone. Some pagan tribes still worship the Old Gods, but the day will come when they will convert to the One True Faith—either willingly or at the point of the sword. Whether they accept it or not, the ice will take them.

Part of the bridge's stone had collapsed, falling into the darkness. Time never respects ancient beauty, the frost priests taught. Everything is fleeting when zoomed into a longer time scale. Even the most majestic peaks will be flattened by wind and glaciers, given enough time. The only thing that lasts forever is faith.

With a deep respect in his heart, Sigvar walked with Stonefist and Ice-Holder across the broad bridge. Here the greatest battle of all had taken place, thousands of years ago, when the Iceborn faced the Watcher, deciding the fate of the world.

Here they were victorious, but at a heavy cost, and the Watchers were cast into darkness.

Sigvar walked in silence, lost in thoughts of ages past. The other two Iceborn spoke as well, but whether because of the howling wind or because they, too, were caught up in a similar reverie of old, Sigvar could not tell.

They came to the other side of the Bridge of Sorrows, where Lissandra had led the Iceborn in the great ancient war, and Halla Frozen Soul raised a hand to signal them to stop.

"We go down here," she shouted over the wind, pointing to a gap in the cliff wall where the stone bridge was close to the rift.

Sigvar and Olar nodded in compliance. Olar was older and more experienced, his name carved nine times on the wall to Halla’s three, but old rules die hard. The blood of the three sisters was stronger in the women of the Freljord tribes.

"I'll lead," Halla called. "Stonefist will be the anchor. Half-barreled arrows will bring up the rear."

They unrolled two coils of rope and tied them to each other’s belts—Hala to Olar, Olar to Sigvar. They fastened the iron toe spikes on their boots and folded their ice axes, tying them to their wrists with leather loops.

Halla swung her ice pick in a few small circles, stretching her arm muscles. Then she leaped off the bridge, landing on the icy outcropping of the cliff ten feet below. Sigvar and Olar waited for her to gain a firm grip, digging their picks into the ice, before following her lead.

“We are the will of the goddess, the goddess who walks among men,” Halla said. “Make her proud, children of winter.”

Then she climbed over the edge, stabbed her ice pick deep into the ice, scaled the ledge, kicked her toe spikes into the wall, and began to descend.

Ora grinned at Sigvar, his eyes gleaming with feral glee. “You will be a different Iceborn when you return. The Howling Abyss will change you… if you return at all.” He winked, then stepped off the edge as well, out of sight, leaving Sigvar alone.

No, not alone, he reminded himself. The Eye was watching him. He could still feel it burning on his forehead. Lissandra was with him, always.

He waited a moment longer, then began to climb down into the abyss.

They were moving very fast, and Halla Hanbingpo had set a pace that could not be slowed down, but they did not take unnecessary risks. They climbed down one person at a time, first Halla, then Olar, and then Sigvar, and each time they moved a distance almost equal to the length of the rope. In this way, they always had a stable anchor to prevent falling, and the intervals between each person's stops allowed them to descend at a steady speed without having to take time to rest.

The Bridge of Sorrows was not the only bridge across the chasm. Dozens more bridged the two walls of the Great Rip, but only a few were visible at any one time, the distance, the mist, and the darkness all tightening around them like a shroud. All but the topmost bridge lay abandoned and unused, and the tunnels and passages leading to them had been blocked by avalanches or sealed by the Frostguard themselves, limiting the number of entrances to the keep.

The two closest bridges were several hundred feet apart, and as they went deeper, the distance between the bridges became farther. Some bridges had been completely destroyed, with only the skeletons of the piers sticking out from both sides of the ice spear, marking where the bridges once existed.

The light was dim, but not the all-consuming darkness of the winter solstice; more like the afterglow of dusk. The ice itself seemed to emit a dim, ethereal light that reflected in the thick fog, so the three did not need to carry torches or firewood.

The howling wind still whipped through the valley, like ghostly hands pulling at them, trying to pry them off the ice.

They had no way of telling time. The different moments all blurred together into an indistinguishable mass. Climb, wait, climb, wait. As he climbed, Sigvar found his rhythm, lost in the repetitive cycle of hammering, toe-spurring, and lifting the pick. As he waited for Halla and Olar to descend, he recited a mantra to keep himself alert.

Do not resist the embrace of cold, for there lies the truth. Become one with the ice and you will understand the truth. "

Down, down, down they climbed, at a steady pace. Hours might have passed, or a whole day. Without the sky in sight, Sigvar had no way of telling time.

Be patient and do not complain. Ice never asks for mercy, nor does it give mercy. I should be like ice.

No lesser creature could match their pace. They were the Iceborn, children of the gods, and they were unlike any other mortal. Able to march for days and nights without sleep, and then to stand firm against any foe, their unyielding endurance far exceeded the limits of any Hearthborn's lifespan.

Even so, Sigvar’s forearms ached, and sweat formed beneath his furs. So when the ice gave way beneath his feet, he was too slow to react. He slashed with his ice pick, but it was too shallow, and he only yanked a chunk of ice off the wall.

Then he began to fall.

Do not fear pain, and do not flee from the blessing of pain. Without pain, there can be no life.