“Feel the fire of the eternal flame!” The words erupt like a supernova, a roar that carries the heat of a thousand suns. Brand stands atop the crumbling walls of the Shadow Isles, his body a swirling inferno of crimson and gold. The wind carries the scent of decay, but the flames devour it, turning the air to ash. His clawed hands flex, crackling with energy, as memories of a life—or perhaps a death—he can barely recall flicker in the embers.
Long before the League of Legends, before the summoners bound his essence to the Rift, Brand was Kegan Rodhe—a man of the Grey Order, a secretive cabal of sorcerers who sought to control the power of the Darkin. The Order had discovered relics of the ancient war, weapons forged from the void’s corruption, and believed they could harness their power without falling to their influence. Kegan, young and ambitious, volunteered to wield the Blade of the Eternal Flame , a sword said to hold the essence of a primordial fire spirit.
The ritual was a mistake.
The Blade’s power consumed him, its flames rewriting his flesh, his soul, his very purpose. Kegan’s screams echoed across the Shuriman deserts as the fire consumed his mortality. His comrades, fearing the corruption, turned on him. They shattered the Blade, hoping to extinguish the inferno, but the spirit within refused to die. It fused with Kegan’s essence, transforming him into Brand—a vessel of endless rage and fire.
For centuries, Brand wandered, a storm of flames and vengeance. He hunted the Grey Order, burning their strongholds to cinders. One by one, they fell, their bodies reduced to ash. When the last member—a woman named Lysandra—begged for mercy, Brand’s flames consumed her without hesitation. “Mercy is for the living,” he growled, his voice a volcanic rumble.
The League of Legends offered him a stage. Here, he could unleash his fury without restraint, the summoners mistaking his chaos for a tool. He dueled Anivia, the Cryophoenix, her frost clashing with his flames. “Your cold cannot stop the inevitable,” he taunted, his fire melting her glaciers. Anivia’s reply was a requiem. “The inevitable is a choice .”
But Brand knew no choice. The fire demanded. He obeyed.
In the Freljord, he encountered Ashe, the Frost Archer. Her arrows, tipped with True Ice, pierced his flames, momentarily quelling the inferno. “You fight for vengeance,” she said, her voice calm. Brand laughed, a sound like a collapsing star. “Vengeance is a symphony . And I am its conductor.”
His true rival, however, was Xerath, the Magus Ascendant. Once a mortal sorcerer, Xerath had attempted to Ascend to godhood, only to be trapped in a sarcophagus of arcane stone. Their battles were cataclysmic—Xerath’s cosmic magic vs. Brand’s eternal flames. “You are a slave to your power,” Xerath sneered during one clash. Brand’s fire engulfed the Magus’ sarcophagus. “And you are a slave to your pride .”
Yet it was in the Ionian city of Navori that Brand’s story reached its cruelest turn. He faced Varus, the Arrow of Retribution, whose cursed bow hummed with the same void energy that fueled Brand’s flames. “We are both prisoners,” Varus hissed. Brand’s laughter was a wildfire. “You are a child . I am the flame itself.”
Now, as he stands atop the Howling Abyss, Brand reflects. The fire within him burns hotter, the void’s whispers growing louder. The Grey Order is gone, their ashes scattered, but the rage remains. He has razed cities, toppled empires, and still, the flames hunger.
In the quiet moments, he visits the ruins of the Grey Order’s citadel. The walls are blackened, the air thick with the scent of burnt parchment. He remembers the faces of his former comrades—the way they pleaded, the way they burned. The fire within him flares, consuming the guilt, the regret, until only the rage remains.
The summoners call him a weapon. The mortals call him a monster. But Brand knows the truth: he is a promise .
On the Rift, he faces Zilean, the Chronokeeper. The old man’s hourglass glows with stolen time, his magic slowing Brand’s flames. “You cling to the past,” Zilean warns. Brand’s inferno engulfs the hourglass, shattering it. “The past clings to me .”
In the end, Brand fights not for victory, nor for redemption. He fights because the fire demands it, because the void’s hunger cannot be sated.
And somewhere, in the silence between heartbeats, he wonders if the Grey Order knew their ritual would create not a savior, but a pyre.
The answer, like the flames, is written in the ashes.
The fire rages.
It always does.
Brand descends into the Shadow Isles, the flames dimming as the void’s chill seeps into his essence. He encounters Hecarim, the Shadow of War, whose spectral hooves trample the souls of the damned. “You think yourself eternal?” Hecarim sneers. Brand’s reply is a roar of flames that lights the centaur’s bones. “Eternity is a game . The fire is the rule.”
Hecarim retreats, his laughter lingering like smoke.
In the heart of the Kumungu Jungle, Brand faces Diana, the Scorn of the Moon. Her blade, Crescent , gleams with stolen lunar magic. “Your flames are a distraction,” she taunts. Brand’s firestorm engulfs her, but Diana dances through it, her armor glowing. “The moon sees through your chaos.”
Brand’s flames flicker. For a heartbeat, he feels doubt. Then the fire surges, consuming the thought. “The moon is blind.”
Now, as he stands in the ruins of a Noxian fortress, Brand feels the weight of the void’s corruption. The flames no longer warm—they devour . He has burned allies, enemies, innocents. The line between them blurred long ago.
The summoners call him again. This time, he faces Aurelion Sol, the Star Forger. The celestial dragon’s flames once birthed galaxies. Now, they sputter against Brand’s inferno. “You think yourself eternal?” Brand roars, his claws sinking into Aurelion Sol’s chest. The dragon’s reply is a comet that scars Brand’s armor. “I am the creator of flames. You are but their prisoner.”
The match ends with Aurelion Sol’s retreat, but Brand’s victory is hollow.
In the quiet moments, he visits the graves of the Grey Order. The stones are cold, the names faded. He places a flame on each grave—a mockery of remembrance. The wind carries the scent of smoke and regret.
Brand still dreams of Kegan Rodhe. The man he once was. The man he could have been.
But the fire does not sleep.
On the Rift, he faces Syndra, the Dark Sovereign. Her orbs of darkness clash with his flames, the battlefield a storm of light and shadow. “You are a slave ,” Syndra sneers. Brand’s inferno swallows her words. “Slavery is a state of mind. The fire is free .”
Syndra’s final orb shatters, her scream lost in the roar of the flames.
In the end, Brand burns not for glory, nor for vengeance. He burns because there is nothing left to do but burn.
And somewhere, in the silence between supernovas, he wonders if the fire will ever let him stop.
The answer, like the void, is vast and indifferent.
“Feel the fire of the eternal flame,” he murmurs, the words a dirge, a prayer, a curse.
But the fire does not reply.
It never does.
Brand returns to the Shadow Isles, the flames dimming as the void’s chill creeps in. He finds a shard of the Blade of the Eternal Flame—its edge still sharp, its spirit still hungry.
He leaves it in the snow.
The fire rages on.
And so, the inferno continues.
One spark at a time.