"If ruling the world can get you a look of pity, I would be willing to let all things be buried with me."
On the day of Foego's coronation, the dark fog swallowed up the last ray of sunlight.
Demacia's silver-armored knights turned into rotting corpses, Piltover's gears were soaked in blood and rust, and Ionia's spiritual trees turned into forests of bones - and he was sitting on the bone throne, and in the ice coffin held tightly in his arms, Isolde's body was dissipating.
He set off a world-destroying rainstorm just to wet the reflection of the blue rose from thousands of years ago.
The black mist is not a curse, but the emperor's humblest wish - may the sound of the city collapsing cover up her coughing up blood, may the wailing tears of all living beings dilute her hatred, may the entangled souls on the throne of eternal night say the unspoken "I'm sorry" for him.
