Many men have gone mad beneath the glare of the Shurima sun, but it was during the night's chilling embrace that Malzahar relinquished his sanity. Malzahar was born a seer, blessed with the gift of prophecy. His talent, though unrefined, promised to be one of Runeterra's greatest boons, but destiny plotted him another course; his sensitivity to the roiling tides of fate allowed other, unwelcome things to tug at his subconscious mind. In his dreams, where the veil of separation is thinnest, a sinister thing beckoned. For some time, Malzahar was able to resist its prodding solicitation, but with each passing night the voice grew louder, or perhaps deeper, until he could withstand the call no more.
He ventured into the desert without supplies, drawn by the lure of a specious charm. His destination: a lost civilization to the east, known to ancient texts as Icathia. Few believed such a place ever existed, and those who did were certain that the sands had long since devoured whatever remained. When Malzahar's cracked feet finally failed him, he found himself kneeling at the base of a bizarre crumbling obelisk. Beyond it lay the alien geometry of a ruined city and the giant decaying idols of dark and horrific gods. His eyes, seeing what others cannot, and what none should, were filled with the essence of the Void. His once shifting visions of the future were replaced with the immutable promise of Valoran beset by creatures of the Void. Standing alone, but not alone, amidst the echoing dunes, he noticed the familiar voice escape his own lips in a parched rasp, bearing three words whose weight trembled his knees: League of Legends. Now infused with the power of the Void itself, Malzahar set off to the north to seek his fate.
''The land may melt, the sea may swell, the sky may fall... but They will come.''