Im just a girl with too much free time and too much ideas, I won't stop posting until I'm satisfied
April 17th - On a Hiatus, work and studies has been taking most of my time, want to write two more chapters before posting.
— Piltover was meant to be neutral ground.
A city of glass, diplomacy, and fragile peace.
You arrived as a princess — raised to be flawless, obedient, untouched. A living jewel from a kingdom carved out of stone and tradition.
You left as something else entirely.
As Noxus burns its way through alliances and borders, you find yourself caught between crowns and conquest, desire and domination. Taken not because you are weak — but because you are valuable.
This is a story about power. About obsession disguised as protection.
About a woman who conquers empires — and the princess she decides to keep.
+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━
ACT I - The Golden Cage
Chapter One — The Jewel Brought to Steel
Chapter Two — Before the Fire Learns Your Name
Chapter Three — The Wolf Does Not Rush
Chapter Four — Gifts Left at the Door
Chapter Five — What Enters Without Asking
Chapter Six — The Slow Collapse of Pillars
Chapter Seven — The Architecture of Silence
Chapter Eight — The Slow Closing Hand
Chapter Nine — The Shape of a Cage
Chapter Ten —
Chapter Eleven —
Chapter Twelve —
ACT II —
Chapter One —
More to come.
ACT III —
Chapter One —
More to come.
☆ if you want to be in the tag list, please leave your comment bellow
Problematically older!Ambessa has an insatiable libido in comparison to yours— perhaps it’s because of the significant age gap and difference in stress levels. It’s been too long.
Maybe a little over an hour but she’s been fucking you nonstop.
The woman has the stamina of a pussy-starved animal. You’re drooling, your brain is long gone— reduced to nothing. Your moans come out broken as she slams her hips into yours.
She fucks you in missionary so she can admire the way your eyes roll back and your lips get all red and glossy from her kisses. Your cheeks are flushed, and sweat runs down your temples.
It’s been long enough for the room to smell like sex and sweat. It’s filthy but you don’t hate it.
You pull her closer as if you’re possessed, you can’t form sensible words. Every other sound is just a moan or a whimper or something so animalistic you didn’t have a proper word to phrase it.
“You wanna cum?” Ambessa asks, but it’s in her tone that suggests she’s not asking you for the sake of knowing if you want to or not.
She’s asking you to show you that your desires don’t matter when her hips are ones bearing the strap.
Your pussy stretches obscenely and all you can let out is just blabbered bullshit. Ambessa laughs before grabbing your face harsh enough to leave bruises on your jaw.
“There you go, little one. You wanted to see what would happen if you flirted with one of my soldiers. You got it.”
The corridor does not feel the same once Ambessa leaves.
It should.
Nothing about it changes — the torches still burn in their iron brackets, their flames bending slightly with the draft that always slips through the stone halls at dusk; the polished floor still reflects faint fragments of gold light; the distant sounds of the palace carry on, muted and indifferent. Servants pass somewhere far behind you, voices low, footsteps careful, the steady rhythm of a kingdom that continues its routines without pause.
And yet—
something has shifted.
Not in the walls.
Not in the air.
In you.
Your body remains exactly as it was when she turned away — spine straight, chin lifted, hands still held too tightly at your sides — but the illusion of control has thinned, stretched to the point where even you can feel it threatening to tear.
Because Ambessa did not raise her voice.
She did not threaten.
She did not touch you.
And still—
you feel cornered.
You do not move immediately.
For a moment, you remain there in the middle of the corridor, staring at the space she left behind as if the shape of her presence still lingers in it. Your mind replays her words with quiet precision, each one settling deeper than it should.
You’re going to lose this fight.
Your jaw tightens.
You refuse to give the thought more space than it deserves.
You refuse—
“My child.”
The voice cuts through everything.
Soft.
Warm.
Familiar in a way that should ground you, steady you, bring you back into yourself.
And yet it doesn’t.
Because when you turn—
your mother is already close.
Closer than you expected.
She must have begun walking toward you the moment Ambessa stepped away, her pace measured, composed, giving nothing away to anyone who might have passed through the corridor in those few seconds.
The queen stops just in front of you.
Not too close.
Never too close in public spaces.
But close enough that her presence wraps around you with quiet, inescapable awareness.
Her gaze moves over your face.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Not searching for surface answers.
Looking for fractures.
“You left the council early,” she says, her tone light enough to pass as casual to anyone listening — though there is no one close enough now to hear.
“I stayed until the end,” you reply evenly.
A small pause.
Your mother’s brow lifts, just slightly.
“Yes,” she says, as though adjusting the statement in her mind. “You did.”
Silence settles between you for a brief moment, but it is not empty. It is filled with observation — hers, precise and patient; yours, controlled and guarded.
Then—
“I saw you speaking with General Medarda.”
There it is.
Direct.
But not accusatory.
Never accusatory.
Your mother does not confront.
She reveals.
You force your shoulders to remain relaxed, your posture unchanged.
“She stopped me in the corridor.”
“And you indulged her.”
The faintest hint of something edges into her voice.
Curiosity.
Perhaps.
Or something sharper.
“She insisted.”
Your mother hums softly, the sound thoughtful.
“Yes,” she says after a moment. “She does seem to have a talent for that.”
Your fingers press slightly into the fabric of your sleeves, grounding yourself in something tangible.
“She is a guest,” you add, carefully. “It would be inappropriate to ignore her outright.”
“Of course.”
Your mother’s agreement comes too easily.
Too smoothly.
She takes a slow step to the side, as if adjusting her position — but in doing so, she subtly shifts the angle between you, guiding the conversation away from the open stretch of corridor and into a quieter alcove framed by one of the stone pillars.
It is not privacy.
But it is intention.
Her gaze returns to your face.
“You are uncomfortable.”
The statement lands softly.
But it lands.
You meet her eyes.
“I am not.”
She watches you.
And then—
she smiles.
Not widely.
Not warmly.
But knowingly.
“You have always been a poor liar when you are tired.”
The words strike closer than you would like.
You inhale slowly, steadying your breath before responding.
“I am not lying.”
“No?”
Her head tilts slightly, studying you with that same quiet precision that has unsettled diplomats and nobles alike.
“Then tell me,” she says gently, “why your hands are clenched?”
You hadn’t realized.
Not fully.
Your fingers tighten reflexively before you can stop them, the fabric of your sleeves bunching beneath your grip.
You release them immediately.
Too late.
Your mother notices everything.
“It was a long meeting,” you say, your voice even, controlled. “Tensions run high in matters of strategy.”
“Mm.”
She considers that.
Then steps closer.
Just enough that her voice lowers, her words meant only for you.
“And yet,” she continues softly, “your tension began long before the council adjourned.”
Your throat tightens.
You say nothing.
Because there is nothing you can say that she will not see through.
Because she is not asking.
She is confirming.
Your mother studies you for a long moment.
Then, very quietly—
“She unsettles you.”
The words are not framed as a question.
You could deny it.
You should deny it.
You open your mouth—
—and close it again.
Because something in her gaze shifts.
Not suspicion.
Not judgment.
Understanding.
And that is far more dangerous.
“I do not trust her,” you say instead.
It is the truth.
Just not the whole truth.
Your mother’s expression softens slightly.
“That is wise.”
Relief flickers briefly in your chest—
and disappears just as quickly.
Because she does not stop there.
“But that is not all,” she adds.
Of course it isn’t.
Your pulse begins to climb again.
“She is clever,” your mother continues, her voice calm, measured, each word placed with deliberate care. “She speaks little, but when she does, she leaves an impression. Your father finds her… compelling.”
You glance away briefly.
“I noticed.”
“And you?” she asks.
Your gaze snaps back to hers.
For a moment, the corridor feels too quiet.
Too still.
“I find her dangerous.”
Your mother watches you.
Closely.
“And yet you stood your ground in the council.”
“I had to.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then—
“And you will have to again.”
The weight of that settles heavily in your chest.
Because she is not speaking about strategy.
Not really.
Your mother exhales softly, her gaze drifting for a moment down the corridor where Ambessa disappeared.
“She is positioning herself,” the queen says, almost to herself.
“Within our court.”
“Within your father’s confidence.”
Her eyes return to you.
“And, it seems, within your path.”
Your stomach tightens.
“She will not succeed.”
Your mother does not contradict you.
But she does not agree either.
Instead, she studies your face one last time, her expression unreadable for a brief, unsettling moment.
Then she reaches out—
and adjusts the edge of your sleeve.
A small gesture.
Familiar.
Intimate in the quiet, restrained way only she allows herself in public spaces.
“You must be careful,” she says softly.
“I am.”
“No.”
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
“Careful is not the same as guarded.”
The distinction lands harder than you expect.
“Guarded can be broken,” she continues.
“Careful requires awareness.”
Your breath catches slightly.
“She is watching you,” your mother says.
You think of Ambessa’s gaze.
The way it lingers.
Measures.
Consumes without touching.
“I know.”
Your mother’s hand stills briefly against your sleeve before she withdraws it.
“Good.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“Then you also know that she is not the only one.”
Your chest tightens.
Because now—
you understand.
Your mother is watching too.
Not as an enemy.
Not as an ally.
But as a queen.
Measuring.
Calculating.
Waiting.
She steps back then, reclaiming the distance expected of her position.
The moment closes.
The warmth recedes.
“Come,” she says lightly, as though the conversation had never carried weight at all. “Your father will expect us at supper.”
You nod automatically.
“Of course.”
She turns, beginning to walk down the corridor.
You follow a step behind.
Your posture perfect.
Your expression composed.
Every inch the heir your kingdom expects you to be.
But as you walk—
your mind does not settle.
Because Ambessa Medarda is not simply moving pieces across a board.
She is rearranging the board itself.
And you no longer is certain where you stand on it
Dinner is never truly informal.
Not in a palace like this.
Even on evenings when the guest list is small, when only family and a single visitor are expected, there is still an unspoken structure to it — a choreography so ingrained that no one questions it anymore. Servants move in quiet precision, placing silverware in perfect alignment, filling goblets before they are empty, ensuring that no pause lingers long enough to feel like silence.
Tonight, however, the silence lingers anyway.
You feel it the moment you step into the dining hall.
The room is already lit, chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over the long table that stretches through the center of the space. Your father stands near the head of it, speaking with one of the attendants, his posture relaxed, his voice carrying just enough to suggest ease. Your mother is seated already, composed, elegant, her attention seemingly fixed on the arrangement of the table before her.
And Ambessa—
Ambessa is not seated at the head.
She is not positioned as an equal.
Not formally.
But she stands close enough to your father that the distinction begins to blur.
They are speaking quietly, her tone low, controlled, something in the cadence of her voice drawing his attention in a way that is almost imperceptible unless one knows to look for it.
You do.
Of course you do.
Your steps slow just slightly as you enter.
Not enough to be remarked upon.
Just enough to take in the arrangement of the room.
To measure distances.
Positions.
Angles.
To understand the shape of the evening before it begins.
Alanys is already seated.
She sits a little further down the table than usual, one leg crossed casually beneath the fabric of her gown, her posture just a touch too relaxed for the setting. When she notices you, her gaze sharpens immediately, scanning your face in a way that is far too perceptive for someone her age.
You move toward her without hesitation.
Not rushing.
Never rushing.
But deliberately choosing the seat beside her.
Not the one closer to Ambessa.
Never that one.
The chair slides softly as you sit, the wood barely making a sound against the polished floor. You smooth your sleeves, adjust your posture, settle into the role expected of you before anyone has the chance to observe otherwise.
Only then do you lean slightly toward Alanys.
Your voice is low.
Measured.
“Where is Myrian?”
Alanys blinks once.
Then her lips twitch.
And just like that—
the tension shifts.
Not gone.
Never gone.
But bent, briefly, by something lighter.
She leans closer to you, lowering her voice in return, though there is a faint, unmistakable amusement in it.
“Oh,” she murmurs, barely containing a quiet laugh, “she’s occupied.”
Your brows draw together slightly.
“With what?”
Alanys’s smile widens, just enough to betray her.
“With one of her guards,”
The emphasis is subtle.
Deliberate.
You follow the direction of her gaze without turning your head fully.
At the far end of the hall, near one of the side doors, you catch a glimpse of movement — Myrian, unmistakably animated, her posture open, expressive, leaning just a bit too close to one of Ambessa’s soldiers as she speaks. The guard, to his credit, stands rigid, though there is a faint awkwardness in the way he holds himself, as though unsure how to respond without overstepping.
Myrian, of course, has no such concern.
Your jaw tightens.
Of course she does.
Of course, in the middle of this—
she finds amusement.
You look back to Alanys.
“She should not be doing that.”
Your voice is low.
Sharpened at the edges.
Alanys exhales a small laugh through her nose.
“Oh, relax.”
“I am serious.”
“I know.”
And she does.
That is the problem.
Alanys tilts her head slightly, studying you with that same unsettling awareness she has been showing more and more lately — as if she is beginning to understand things she should not yet fully grasp.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Alanys adds, softer now. “Or at least she thinks she does.”
“That does not make it wise.”
“No,” Alanys agrees lightly, “but it makes it entertaining.”
Your irritation flickers.
Brief.
Controlled.
But present.
You exhale slowly, forcing it down.
Because as much as it frustrates you—
as much as the situation demands awareness, caution, control—
Alanys is still—
a child.
Not entirely.
Not anymore.
She has grown sharper, more observant, more capable of reading a room than most would expect from someone her age.
But moments like this remind you—
she has not yet learned to carry the weight of consequence.
Not the way you have.
Not the way you must.
Your gaze softens just slightly.
Only for a moment.
Then you straighten again.
“Keep her out of trouble,” you murmur.
Alanys smiles faintly.
“I’ll try.”
Which means she won’t.
Not entirely.
But it is the closest promise she will give.
Before you can respond, your father’s voice carries across the room.
“Come,” he calls, warm, inviting. “Let us sit.”
The moment folds closed.
You lean back into your chair just as Ambessa and the king approach the table.
Your mother watches all of it.
Of course she does.
Every glance.
Every shift in posture.
Every subtle exchange.
Ambessa takes her seat.
Not beside you.
Not directly across.
But close enough.
Close enough that her presence presses against the edges of your awareness even when you are not looking at her.
The arrangement is deliberate.
Whether by design or instinct, you cannot say.
But you feel it.
The proximity.
The quiet pressure of it.
Dinner begins.
Servants move in practiced silence, placing the first course before each of you, filling goblets with dark wine that catches the candlelight in deep crimson reflections.
Your father speaks first, as he often does.
Light conversation.
Harmless topics.
The council, reframed as productive rather than tense.
Trade.
Weather.
Small matters that allow the table to settle into rhythm.
Ambessa participates easily.
She does not dominate.
She never does.
But when she speaks, your father listens.
Really listens.
Leaning slightly toward her, his attention narrowing, his expression thoughtful in a way that makes something tight and unpleasant curl in your chest.
Your mother remains composed.
Silent more often than not.
But when she does speak—
the air shifts.
“General,” she says at one point, her tone smooth, almost conversational, “you have spent considerable time in our capital these past weeks.”
Ambessa glances toward her.
“Yes.”
“A rare luxury, I imagine.”
“War teaches one to appreciate stillness when it is offered.”
Your mother’s lips curve faintly.
“And yet you do not seem idle.”
Ambessa’s gaze flickers, just briefly.
“Idleness has never suited me.”
“No,” your mother agrees softly. “I did not imagine it would.”
A pause.
Measured.
Deliberate.
“And do you often remain so long in the courts of those who are not your own?”
The question is light.
Elegant.
But it lands with precision.
Your father glances between them, as though only now sensing the subtle tension threading through the conversation.
Ambessa does not miss a beat.
“Only when I find them worth understanding.”
Your mother’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
“And have you found us… understandable?”
Ambessa leans back slightly in her chair.
Her gaze moves, briefly—
to you.
Then back to the queen.
“Not yet.”
The answer settles over the table like a shadow.
Your father chuckles, breaking the tension before it can fully root itself.
“Well,” he says lightly, lifting his goblet, “I suppose we must do better, then.”
Ambessa lifts hers in response.
A small, controlled motion.
But her eyes—
for just a moment—
find yours again.
And it finally clicks.
This is not a visit.
This is not diplomacy.
This is a process.
Slow.
Intentional.
Unfolding exactly as she intends.
And as the conversation continues, as your father speaks and your mother watches and Alanys shifts beside you with restless energy—
Im just a girl with too much free time and too much ideas, I won't stop posting until I'm satisfied
— Piltover was meant to be neutral ground.
A city of glass, diplomacy, and fragile peace.
You arrived as a princess — raised to be flawless, obedient, untouched. A living jewel from a kingdom carved out of stone and tradition.
You left as something else entirely.
As Noxus burns its way through alliances and borders, you find yourself caught between crowns and conquest, desire and domination. Taken not because you are weak — but because you are valuable.
This is a story about power. About obsession disguised as protection.
About a woman who conquers empires — and the princess she decides to keep.
+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*+:★:+*━━━*+:★:+*━━━
ACT I - The Golden Cage
Chapter One — The Jewel Brought to Steel
Chapter Two — Before the Fire Learns Your Name
Chapter Three — The Wolf Does Not Rush
Chapter Four — Gifts Left at the Door
Chapter Five — What Enters Without Asking
Chapter Six — The Slow Collapse of Pillars
Chapter Seven — The Architecture of Silence
Chapter Eight —
Chapter Nine —
Chapter Ten —
ACT II —
Chapter One —
More to come.
ACT III —
Chapter One —
More to come.
☆ if you want to be in the tag list, please leave your comment bellow
The first light arrives pale and slow through the tall eastern windows, washing the marble corridors in a thin silver glow before the servants have even finished lighting the braziers. At this hour the palace belongs to echoes and footsteps, to the soft rustle of uniforms and skirts, to the quiet rituals of a place that has learned to wake without noise.
You used to love this hour.
It felt like breathing space.
Now it feels like hiding.
Your study is already warm with candlelight when you enter, though the sun has barely climbed above the horizon. The servants know better than to delay your mornings lately. Ink, parchment, and sealed reports are already waiting on the wide oak desk that dominates the room.
Piles of them.
An entire fortress of work.
You sit without ceremony, pulling the nearest stack toward you before your cloak has even settled against the back of the chair.
Trade reports.
Border patrol summaries.
Correspondence from minor nobles who believe their grievances deserve royal attention.
You read.
Sign.
Correct.
Delegate.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The rhythm is mechanical now. Efficient. Controlled. The scratch of the quill against parchment fills the room in a steady, relentless cadence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace or the turning of a page.
It is almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because as long as your eyes remain on the paper, as long as your mind stays buried in numbers and requests and reports—
you don’t have to think about her.
Ambessa Medarda has been in the capital for nearly three fucking weeks.
The first visit had been formal.
Ceremonial.
Political.
Necessary.
But now she lingers.
She returns.
Again.
And again.
At first it had been invitations to strategy discussions.
Then hunts.
Then quiet walks in the royal gardens with your father.
Now she appears in places where she has no reason to be—speaking with officers, exchanging words with members of the council, lingering in conversations just long enough to leave an impression before moving on.
Never pushing.
Never demanding.
Only existing.
And somehow that has been enough.
Your quill pauses above the parchment.
You force it to move again.
A knock breaks the silence.
You do not look up.
“Enter.”
The door opens.
Footsteps.
Not a servant.
Too confident.
Too familiar.
“You will blind yourself at this rate.”
You finally raise your head.
Alanys stands in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, arms folded as she surveys the battlefield of documents covering your desk.
Her expression is not amused.
It is concerned.
“You’re up early,” you say, voice level.
She gestures vaguely toward the papers.
“You’re up earlier.”
You shrug lightly.
“There is work to be done.”
Alanys walks into the room without asking permission, pulling a chair across from you and sitting down with a quiet scrape against the stone floor.
Her eyes move slowly across the stacks of parchment.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since dawn.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You don’t answer.
Instead you reach for another report, unfolding it with deliberate calm.
It takes her only a few seconds to understand.
“You’re hiding.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I’m working.”
“You’re hiding behind work.”
You finally meet her gaze.
“I have responsibilities.”
Alanys leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the desk.
“So does she.”
The word sits heavily between you.
She.
Neither of you says the name.
You look down again, adjusting the alignment of two documents that were already perfectly straight.
“What does she want today?”
Alanys exhales slowly.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether father believes her.”
Your hand stills.
You look up again.
“Explain.”
Alanys tilts her head, studying your face carefully before answering.
“There’s a meeting this afternoon.”
“With whom?”
“The military council.”
Your stomach tightens.
“She requested it?”
“Not exactly.”
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“Then who did.”
Alanys hesitates.
Only for a moment.
“Father.”
Silence spreads through the study like ink soaking into paper.
Your fingers curl slowly around the quill.
“And I was not informed.”
“No.”
You lean back in the chair, the wood creaking softly beneath the shift in your weight.
For a moment you simply stare at the ceiling beams above.
Of course.
Of course she would do it like this.
Not through confrontation.
Through access.
Through trust.
Ambessa Medarda doesn’t take power by force.
She lets people hand it to her.
“She’s been advising him,” Alanys continues quietly.
“On what.”
“Everything.”
Your laugh is soft.
But there is no humor in it.
“How generous of her.”
Alanys watches you carefully.
“She’s careful.”
“I noticed.”
“She doesn’t push too hard.”
“Not yet.”
Silence again.
Outside the study window, the palace has begun to wake fully. You can hear distant voices in the courtyards now, the clatter of carts bringing morning supplies through the gates, the muted rhythm of soldiers changing watch.
Life continues.
Unaware.
Inside the study, the air feels heavier.
“She walked the gardens with him yesterday,” Alanys says after a moment.
Your gaze snaps back to her.
“The private gardens?”
Alanys nods.
“For nearly an hour.”
Your fingers tighten around the quill again.
The private gardens are not where diplomats wander casually.
They are where kings speak freely.
Where alliances are born in the quiet shade of trees.
Where trust grows without witnesses.
Your chest feels suddenly tight.
“And mother?”
Alanys’s expression shifts slightly.
“She noticed.”
Of course she did.
Your mother notices everything.
“She didn’t say much,” Alanys continues, “but she was watching them during supper.”
You lower your gaze again, pretending to read the report still lying open before you.
The words blur.
“What did she say to you?”
Alanys studies you for a long moment.
“She asked why you weren’t there.”
You say nothing.
“I told her you were working.”
You nod slightly.
“And then?”
A small pause.
Alanys’s voice lowers.
“She asked when work became a place to hide.”
Your throat tightens.
You set the quill down carefully.
Too carefully.
Your mother knows you.
Better than anyone.
She has always been able to see the cracks beneath your composure, the moments where the weight of the crown presses a little too heavily on your shoulders.
She will notice this.
Soon.
If she hasn’t already.
You reach for another document.
Another report.
Another excuse.
“I have responsibilities,” you repeat quietly.
Alanys does not argue.
Instead she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of patience only siblings possess.
“You know she’s not leaving.”
The words land softly.
But they land.
Your hands still.
“I know.”
“She’s not here for diplomacy.”
“I know.”
“She’s studying us.”
“I know.”
Your voice is sharper now.
Alanys raises her hands slightly in surrender.
“Alright.”
Silence settles again.
Then she stands.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as she pushes it back.
At the doorway she pauses.
For a moment she simply looks at you.
At the papers.
At the carefully constructed wall of responsibilities you’ve built around yourself.
“She’s coming again today,” Alanys says quietly.
You don’t look up.
“I assumed.”
Another pause.
Then, softer—
“Father trusts her.”
That, more than anything else, is the problem.
Because Ambessa Medarda is not conquering your kingdom.
She is being welcomed into it.
Alanys leaves a moment later, the door closing gently behind her.
The study falls silent again.
You stare at the documents in front of you for a long time.
Your work remains exactly where it was.
The fortress you built this morning.
Paper walls.
Ink defenses.
Strategies and numbers and decisions meant to protect a kingdom.
And yet—
somewhere in the palace—
Ambessa Medarda is walking its halls.
Speaking to your father.
Winning the quiet approval of the court.
Learning the shape of power here.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like a hunter studying the terrain.
And no matter how many documents you bury yourself beneath...
you cannot escape the fact that sooner or later, she will come looking for you again.
The council chamber was not meant to feel oppressive.
It had been designed, centuries ago, to do the opposite.
Tall windows carved into the western wall allowed late afternoon light to spill into the room in long amber beams. The stone pillars were etched with the history of the kingdom — victories, alliances, treaties that had held for generations. Even the long table at the center of the chamber had been crafted deliberately wide, ensuring that no one voice could ever dominate the space too easily.
A room for discussion.
For balance.
For reason.
And yet, as you step inside, it feels smaller than it ever has.
The council has already gathered.
Advisors, generals, ministers — the usual assembly of sharp minds and older men who have spent most of their lives debating strategy over polished wood and half-finished maps.
Your father sits at the head of the table.
Your mother beside him.
And further down—
her.
Ambessa Medarda does not sit like a guest.
She sits like someone entirely at ease in a room that does not belong to her.
One arm rests loosely along the back of her chair, the other cradling a goblet of dark wine that she has not touched since you entered. Her posture is relaxed, almost casual, yet there is something in the way the surrounding men angle their bodies toward her that makes the balance of the room feel subtly altered.
Like iron shifting beneath the surface of water.
Her gaze finds you immediately.
Of course it does.
There is no surprise in it.
Only that same quiet awareness she always carries — the sense that she has been expecting you long before you appeared.
For a moment neither of you move.
Then your father’s voice breaks the silence.
“Ah. There you are.”
You step forward, the controlled rhythm of your footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floor.
“Forgive the delay,” you say smoothly.
“You’re not late,” the king replies, gesturing toward the empty chair across from Ambessa. “We were only just beginning.”
Of course you were.
The chair across from her.
You take it without hesitation.
The wood is cold beneath your hands as you settle in, folding them neatly on the table to hide the tension that has already begun to coil in your fingers.
Your mother watches you carefully.
She always does.
But today her gaze lingers a moment longer than usual, sharp with a quiet kind of awareness.
She has noticed something.
You know she has.
Your father, meanwhile, appears perfectly at ease.
Which might be the most troubling thing in the room.
“As I was saying,” he continues, turning slightly toward Ambessa, “General Medarda has offered some... interesting perspectives regarding our northern defenses.”
The word interesting is doing an extraordinary amount of work.
You allow your eyes to flick briefly toward Ambessa.
She inclines her head slightly, acknowledging the attention without interrupting.
A performer who knows precisely when to speak.
One of the ministers clears his throat.
“With respect, Your Majesty, Noxian military structures differ significantly from ours. I’m not certain how applicable—”
Ambessa sets her goblet down.
The sound is soft.
Yet the entire table falls quiet.
“I would never presume to dictate how your kingdom defends itself,” she says calmly.
Her voice is low.
Measured.
Controlled.
“But I have fought wars across half the continent. If there is anything in that experience that may be useful to you, it would be discourteous not to offer it.”
The minister hesitates.
Your father smiles slightly.
“And what exactly would you suggest?”
Ambessa’s gaze drifts across the table.
Studying the maps.
The markers.
The arrangement of forces carefully laid out in colored ink.
When she speaks again, her tone remains almost conversational.
“You defend your borders as though your enemies will announce themselves.”
A faint ripple of discomfort moves through the council.
One of the generals frowns.
“Our scouts—”
“—are excellent,” Ambessa interrupts gently.
“And they will warn you exactly one day before your enemies arrive.”
Silence settles again.
Your father leans forward slightly.
“And that is insufficient?”
Ambessa’s lips curve faintly.
“For most armies? No.”
A pause.
Then—
“But Noxus does not send most armies.”
The words are not a threat.
They are simply stated.
Which somehow makes them heavier.
Your mother’s voice enters the conversation for the first time.
Calm.
Elegant.
Dangerously observant.
“And yet Noxus has not marched on our borders.”
Ambessa turns toward her.
The two women regard one another across the length of the table.
There is a quiet intelligence in your mother’s gaze that has unsettled many diplomats before.
It does not seem to unsettle Ambessa at all.
“No,” the general agrees.
“Not yet.”
The room tightens.
Your father chuckles lightly, waving a hand as though dismissing the tension before it can settle too deeply.
“I suspect that if Noxus intended to invade us, we would already know.”
Ambessa does not contradict him.
Instead she lifts her goblet again.
“A kingdom that assumes it will always have time to react,” she says quietly, “rarely does.”
The council shifts uneasily.
But your father appears thoughtful rather than offended.
Which is exactly the reaction Ambessa wanted.
You can see it in the way she leans back again, giving the conversation space to breathe as though she has already planted the idea she came to deliver.
Your mother, however, is not finished.
“And yet,” the queen says slowly, “you offer these warnings with remarkable generosity.”
Ambessa turns her head slightly.
“Generosity?”
“Yes.”
Your mother’s smile is polite.
Composed.
Sharp around the edges.
“You are advising a kingdom that is not your own.”
Ambessa studies her for a moment.
Then—
“I admire strength.”
Your mother arches a brow.
“And you see strength here?”
Ambessa’s gaze shifts.
Not to the king.
Not to the council.
To you.
Only for a moment.
But it is enough to make your stomach tighten.
“I see potential,” she says.
Your father seems pleased by that answer.
Your mother does not.
She watches Ambessa the way a hawk watches movement in tall grass — patient, calculating, waiting for the moment when observation becomes certainty.
“And what would Noxus want in return for such helpful advice?” the queen asks lightly.
Ambessa smiles.
Not wide.
Not obvious.
Just enough to suggest amusement.
“Noxus respects ambition.”
Your mother’s eyes flick briefly toward you.
Then back to the general.
“And if our ambitions differ from yours?”
Ambessa lifts her goblet again.
“If they did,” she says softly, “we would not be sitting at the same table.”
The room falls quiet once more.
Your father exhales thoughtfully.
“Well,” he says at last, tapping a finger against the map, “regardless of the philosophy behind it, I admit the strategic logic is compelling.”
Of course it is.
Ambessa Medarda did not rise to power by offering weak arguments.
One of the generals nods reluctantly.
“If we reposition the western garrison—”
“—you expose the river pass,” another interrupts.
Ambessa watches them debate.
Listening.
Observing.
Saying nothing.
And somehow, despite her silence, the conversation continues to orbit around the ideas she introduced only minutes earlier.
You feel it happening.
The shift.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
Your father glances toward you suddenly.
“What do you think?”
The entire table looks at you.
You sit very still for a moment.
Then you lean forward slightly, studying the map as though considering the matter purely from a strategic perspective.
Which, technically, you are.
Ambessa watches you.
Patient.
Interested.
You can feel it without looking up.
“If the western garrison moves,” you say calmly, “the river pass does become vulnerable.”
One of the ministers nods in agreement.
“But only if an army approaches openly.”
You move one of the markers on the map.
Sliding it across the table with careful precision.
“If the enemy advances in smaller units instead,” you continue, “our current formations would not detect them until they were already past the outer watch lines.”
A quiet murmur spreads through the council.
You finally look up.
Your gaze meets Ambessa’s.
“And that,” you finish evenly, “would be a problem.”
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then Ambessa smiles.
Not mocking.
Not victorious.
Something quieter.
Almost approving.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“It would.”
Your father laughs.
“See? Cooperation already.”
Your mother does not laugh.
She studies both of you instead.
And though she says nothing—
you are almost certain she understands far more about what is happening in this room than anyone else at the table.
Because while the council debates troop movements and border strategy—
Ambessa Medarda is not studying the map.
She is studying you.
And somehow—
slowly—
patiently—
the battlefield is shifting beneath your feet.
The meeting does not end quickly.
Councils rarely do.
What begins as a discussion of borders stretches gradually into trade routes, mining rights, taxation proposals, grain forecasts for the coming winter. The room grows warmer as the sun lowers beyond the tall western windows, amber light fading slowly into muted gold and finally into the cool gray of approaching evening.
Candles are lit.
Servants pass quietly along the walls, replacing goblets and clearing scattered parchment.
And still the conversation continues.
Through all of it, Ambessa Medarda speaks only when necessary.
Which, you realize with growing irritation, makes every word she does offer carry twice the weight.
She does not dominate the discussion.
She redirects it.
A quiet comment about military efficiency becomes a broader conversation about infrastructure. A passing observation about supply lines turns into an entire debate about mining output from the northern ridges.
Every path leads back—subtly, carefully—to the same conclusion.
The value of deeper extraction.
The importance of the mineral Noxus desires.
You notice the pattern.
Your mother notices it too.
Your father, unfortunately, seems pleased by the productivity of the discussion.
At one point he laughs openly, leaning back in his chair.
“I had not expected such a productive council today.”
Ambessa inclines her head slightly.
“Good strategy thrives on conversation.”
Her gaze flickers briefly to you again.
“Even when that conversation is… spirited.”
Your jaw tightens.
Across the table, your mother’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
The meeting drags on another hour.
By the time your father finally rises, stretching slightly as he presses his palms against the table, the sky beyond the windows has darkened into deep twilight.
“Well,” the king says with a satisfied exhale, “I believe we’ve exhausted the topic for one evening.”
Chairs scrape softly against the stone floor as the council members begin to stand.
Some gather their papers.
Others exchange quiet conversations about the proposals discussed.
The slow, natural chaos of a meeting dissolving.
You rise as well, smoothing the fabric of your sleeves as though nothing in the past several hours has unsettled you.
Across the table, Ambessa stands.
For a moment the two of you remain where you are, separated by the length of the council table and the scattered remains of maps and ink.
Then your father approaches her.
“General Medarda,” he says warmly, offering his hand.
She accepts it.
“I appreciate your insight today.”
“The appreciation is mutual,” Ambessa replies smoothly.
Your mother steps forward next.
Unlike the king, she does not offer her hand immediately.
Instead she studies Ambessa for a quiet moment.
“Your experience is… impressive.”
Ambessa meets her gaze without flinching.
“I’ve had many opportunities to learn.”
A pause.
Your mother finally extends her hand.
“I imagine you have.”
The handshake is brief.
Polite.
But something unspoken passes between them in that moment — a tension so thin it might almost be imagined.
Your mother releases her first.
“We will speak again soon,” the queen says lightly.
Ambessa smiles faintly.
“I look forward to it.”
The council chamber begins to empty.
Ministers drift toward the doors in small clusters, their voices echoing softly against the tall stone walls. The generals linger longer, still arguing about supply chains and border posts.
You take advantage of the movement.
The moment the path toward the door clears, you step away from the table.
Your intention is simple.
Leave.
Quietly.
Without drawing attention.
Without allowing Ambessa another opportunity to corner you.
The corridor outside the council chamber is long and dimly lit, torches casting warm pools of light across the polished stone floor.
The air feels cooler here.
You exhale slowly as you step into it, the tension in your shoulders loosening by the smallest degree.
Not safety.
But distance.
Footsteps echo behind you as other members of the council begin to leave the chamber.
You walk steadily down the hall.
Not rushing.
Never rushing.
A princess does not flee from her own council chamber.
Even if every instinct in your body is screaming to do exactly that.
You reach the intersection where the corridor branches toward the eastern wing—
—and a voice stops you.
“Princess.”
You freeze.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
But the pause is there.
A single heartbeat.
Then you turn.
Ambessa stands several paces behind you.
The rest of the council has already moved further down the hall in the opposite direction. Their voices echo faintly in the distance, growing quieter with each passing moment.
Which means—
you are alone.
Again.
Ambessa approaches slowly.
Not threatening.
Not hurried.
Just a steady, measured stride that eats away the distance between you with quiet inevitability.
Torchlight flickers along the dark edges of her armor.
You force yourself to remain still as she stops a few feet away.
Too close.
Close enough that you can see better the scar along the edge of her chin, close to her lips almost.
Close enough to hear the slow rhythm of her breathing.
“You left quickly,” she observes.
Your chin lifts slightly.
“I have responsibilities.”
Her eyes flick briefly down the corridor behind you.
“Of course.”
Silence settles between you.
The castle feels strangely quiet at this hour. Somewhere far away a servant laughs softly, the sound echoing faintly before disappearing again into the stone.
Ambessa studies you.
Slowly.
The same way a strategist studies a battlefield map.
“You did well in the council.”
The compliment is delivered so casually it almost sounds like an afterthought.
You do not thank her.
“You already knew that.”
Her mouth curves slightly.
“Yes.”
Your fingers curl against your sleeve.
“What do you want?”
She considers the question.
“Conversation.”
You almost laugh.
Instead, your voice comes out colder than intended.
“You have spent the last three months attempting conversation.”
Ambessa tilts her head slightly.
“And you have spent three months refusing it.”
“That should tell you something.”
“It does.”
Her gaze does not leave yours.
“It tells me you are stubborn.”
A beat passes.
Then—
“I admire that.”
You exhale slowly through your nose.
“I’m not interested in your admiration.”
Ambessa’s expression does not change.
“I know.”
The honesty of the response irritates you more than any insult could have.
You shift your weight slightly.
“If that was all—”
“It wasn’t.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Ambessa’s gaze drifts briefly toward the distant curve of the corridor where the last of the council members disappeared.
Then back to you.
“You’re afraid.”
Your stomach tightens.
“I’m not.”
She watches you quietly.
The corner of her mouth lifts.
“Lying does not suit you.”
Your voice sharpens.
“You presume a great deal.”
“Do I?”
Another pause.
Then she steps slightly closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough that the space between you feels narrower.
“I’ve commanded armies,” she says softly.
“I know what fear looks like.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears now.
“Then perhaps you should look elsewhere.”
Ambessa studies your face.
The tension in your jaw.
The way your shoulders remain perfectly straight despite the rigid line of your spine.
Finally she chuckles.
Low.
Quiet.
Almost thoughtful.
“You’re doing it again.”
Your brows knit slightly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending.”
The word lands heavier than expected.
Her voice drops a fraction lower.
“As if you believe control is the same thing as safety.”
You feel heat rise in your chest.
“You know nothing about me.”
Ambessa’s eyes darken slightly.
“I know enough.”
A long silence stretches between you.
Then she says something that makes the air feel thinner.
“You’re going to lose this fight.”
The words are not cruel.
They are simply stated.
A fact.
Your hands tighten at your sides.
“I’m not fighting.”
Ambessa smiles faintly.
“Yes,” she says.
“You are.”
You stare at her.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then—
from somewhere behind Ambessa—
a door opens.
Footsteps echo faintly.
Voices approaching from deeper within the castle.
Ambessa glances briefly toward the sound.
When she looks back at you, her expression has shifted slightly.
Less amused.
More focused.
“Your mother is watching.”
Your breath catches.
“What?”
Ambessa nods subtly toward the far end of the corridor.
You follow the direction of her gaze.
At the distant intersection of hallways, half concealed by shadow and torchlight—
stands the queen.
She is not close enough to hear your conversation.
But she is very clearly observing the two of you.
Your stomach drops.
Ambessa looks back at you.
“That,” she says quietly, “will be interesting.”
Your pulse pounds.
“What do you mean?”
Ambessa’s smile returns.
Slow.
Sharp.
Dangerously satisfied.
You almost fears she might kiss you again.
“She’s beginning to ask the right questions.”
Your mouth goes dry.
And then—
Ambessa steps back.
Just enough distance to make the space between you feel suddenly colder.
“We’ll continue this later,” she says calmly.
You stare at her.
“You assume there will be a later.”
Ambessa’s gaze lingers on your face one last time.
“Oh,” she says softly.
“There will be.”
She turns then.
Walking down the corridor toward the opposite wing of the castle without another word.
The first light arrives pale and slow through the tall eastern windows, washing the marble corridors in a thin silver glow before the servants have even finished lighting the braziers. At this hour the palace belongs to echoes and footsteps, to the soft rustle of uniforms and skirts, to the quiet rituals of a place that has learned to wake without noise.
You used to love this hour.
It felt like breathing space.
Now it feels like hiding.
Your study is already warm with candlelight when you enter, though the sun has barely climbed above the horizon. The servants know better than to delay your mornings lately. Ink, parchment, and sealed reports are already waiting on the wide oak desk that dominates the room.
Piles of them.
An entire fortress of work.
You sit without ceremony, pulling the nearest stack toward you before your cloak has even settled against the back of the chair.
Trade reports.
Border patrol summaries.
Correspondence from minor nobles who believe their grievances deserve royal attention.
You read.
Sign.
Correct.
Delegate.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The rhythm is mechanical now. Efficient. Controlled. The scratch of the quill against parchment fills the room in a steady, relentless cadence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace or the turning of a page.
It is almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because as long as your eyes remain on the paper, as long as your mind stays buried in numbers and requests and reports—
you don’t have to think about her.
Ambessa Medarda has been in the capital for nearly three fucking weeks.
The first visit had been formal.
Ceremonial.
Political.
Necessary.
But now she lingers.
She returns.
Again.
And again.
At first it had been invitations to strategy discussions.
Then hunts.
Then quiet walks in the royal gardens with your father.
Now she appears in places where she has no reason to be—speaking with officers, exchanging words with members of the council, lingering in conversations just long enough to leave an impression before moving on.
Never pushing.
Never demanding.
Only existing.
And somehow that has been enough.
Your quill pauses above the parchment.
You force it to move again.
A knock breaks the silence.
You do not look up.
“Enter.”
The door opens.
Footsteps.
Not a servant.
Too confident.
Too familiar.
“You will blind yourself at this rate.”
You finally raise your head.
Alanys stands in the doorway, one shoulder leaning against the frame, arms folded as she surveys the battlefield of documents covering your desk.
Her expression is not amused.
It is concerned.
“You’re up early,” you say, voice level.
She gestures vaguely toward the papers.
“You’re up earlier.”
You shrug lightly.
“There is work to be done.”
Alanys walks into the room without asking permission, pulling a chair across from you and sitting down with a quiet scrape against the stone floor.
Her eyes move slowly across the stacks of parchment.
“How long have you been here?”
“Since dawn.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You don’t answer.
Instead you reach for another report, unfolding it with deliberate calm.
It takes her only a few seconds to understand.
“You’re hiding.”
Your jaw tightens.
“I’m working.”
“You’re hiding behind work.”
You finally meet her gaze.
“I have responsibilities.”
Alanys leans forward slightly, resting her forearms on the desk.
“So does she.”
The word sits heavily between you.
She.
Neither of you says the name.
You look down again, adjusting the alignment of two documents that were already perfectly straight.
“What does she want today?”
Alanys exhales slowly.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether father believes her.”
Your hand stills.
You look up again.
“Explain.”
Alanys tilts her head, studying your face carefully before answering.
“There’s a meeting this afternoon.”
“With whom?”
“The military council.”
Your stomach tightens.
“She requested it?”
“Not exactly.”
Your eyes narrow slightly.
“Then who did.”
Alanys hesitates.
Only for a moment.
“Father.”
Silence spreads through the study like ink soaking into paper.
Your fingers curl slowly around the quill.
“And I was not informed.”
“No.”
You lean back in the chair, the wood creaking softly beneath the shift in your weight.
For a moment you simply stare at the ceiling beams above.
Of course.
Of course she would do it like this.
Not through confrontation.
Through access.
Through trust.
Ambessa Medarda doesn’t take power by force.
She lets people hand it to her.
“She’s been advising him,” Alanys continues quietly.
“On what.”
“Everything.”
Your laugh is soft.
But there is no humor in it.
“How generous of her.”
Alanys watches you carefully.
“She’s careful.”
“I noticed.”
“She doesn’t push too hard.”
“Not yet.”
Silence again.
Outside the study window, the palace has begun to wake fully. You can hear distant voices in the courtyards now, the clatter of carts bringing morning supplies through the gates, the muted rhythm of soldiers changing watch.
Life continues.
Unaware.
Inside the study, the air feels heavier.
“She walked the gardens with him yesterday,” Alanys says after a moment.
Your gaze snaps back to her.
“The private gardens?”
Alanys nods.
“For nearly an hour.”
Your fingers tighten around the quill again.
The private gardens are not where diplomats wander casually.
They are where kings speak freely.
Where alliances are born in the quiet shade of trees.
Where trust grows without witnesses.
Your chest feels suddenly tight.
“And mother?”
Alanys’s expression shifts slightly.
“She noticed.”
Of course she did.
Your mother notices everything.
“She didn’t say much,” Alanys continues, “but she was watching them during supper.”
You lower your gaze again, pretending to read the report still lying open before you.
The words blur.
“What did she say to you?”
Alanys studies you for a long moment.
“She asked why you weren’t there.”
You say nothing.
“I told her you were working.”
You nod slightly.
“And then?”
A small pause.
Alanys’s voice lowers.
“She asked when work became a place to hide.”
Your throat tightens.
You set the quill down carefully.
Too carefully.
Your mother knows you.
Better than anyone.
She has always been able to see the cracks beneath your composure, the moments where the weight of the crown presses a little too heavily on your shoulders.
She will notice this.
Soon.
If she hasn’t already.
You reach for another document.
Another report.
Another excuse.
“I have responsibilities,” you repeat quietly.
Alanys does not argue.
Instead she leans back in her chair, studying you with the kind of patience only siblings possess.
“You know she’s not leaving.”
The words land softly.
But they land.
Your hands still.
“I know.”
“She’s not here for diplomacy.”
“I know.”
“She’s studying us.”
“I know.”
Your voice is sharper now.
Alanys raises her hands slightly in surrender.
“Alright.”
Silence settles again.
Then she stands.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as she pushes it back.
At the doorway she pauses.
For a moment she simply looks at you.
At the papers.
At the carefully constructed wall of responsibilities you’ve built around yourself.
“She’s coming again today,” Alanys says quietly.
You don’t look up.
“I assumed.”
Another pause.
Then, softer—
“Father trusts her.”
That, more than anything else, is the problem.
Because Ambessa Medarda is not conquering your kingdom.
She is being welcomed into it.
Alanys leaves a moment later, the door closing gently behind her.
The study falls silent again.
You stare at the documents in front of you for a long time.
Your work remains exactly where it was.
The fortress you built this morning.
Paper walls.
Ink defenses.
Strategies and numbers and decisions meant to protect a kingdom.
And yet—
somewhere in the palace—
Ambessa Medarda is walking its halls.
Speaking to your father.
Winning the quiet approval of the court.
Learning the shape of power here.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Like a hunter studying the terrain.
And no matter how many documents you bury yourself beneath...
you cannot escape the fact that sooner or later, she will come looking for you again.
The council chamber was not meant to feel oppressive.
It had been designed, centuries ago, to do the opposite.
Tall windows carved into the western wall allowed late afternoon light to spill into the room in long amber beams. The stone pillars were etched with the history of the kingdom — victories, alliances, treaties that had held for generations. Even the long table at the center of the chamber had been crafted deliberately wide, ensuring that no one voice could ever dominate the space too easily.
A room for discussion.
For balance.
For reason.
And yet, as you step inside, it feels smaller than it ever has.
The council has already gathered.
Advisors, generals, ministers — the usual assembly of sharp minds and older men who have spent most of their lives debating strategy over polished wood and half-finished maps.
Your father sits at the head of the table.
Your mother beside him.
And further down—
her.
Ambessa Medarda does not sit like a guest.
She sits like someone entirely at ease in a room that does not belong to her.
One arm rests loosely along the back of her chair, the other cradling a goblet of dark wine that she has not touched since you entered. Her posture is relaxed, almost casual, yet there is something in the way the surrounding men angle their bodies toward her that makes the balance of the room feel subtly altered.
Like iron shifting beneath the surface of water.
Her gaze finds you immediately.
Of course it does.
There is no surprise in it.
Only that same quiet awareness she always carries — the sense that she has been expecting you long before you appeared.
For a moment neither of you move.
Then your father’s voice breaks the silence.
“Ah. There you are.”
You step forward, the controlled rhythm of your footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floor.
“Forgive the delay,” you say smoothly.
“You’re not late,” the king replies, gesturing toward the empty chair across from Ambessa. “We were only just beginning.”
Of course you were.
The chair across from her.
You take it without hesitation.
The wood is cold beneath your hands as you settle in, folding them neatly on the table to hide the tension that has already begun to coil in your fingers.
Your mother watches you carefully.
She always does.
But today her gaze lingers a moment longer than usual, sharp with a quiet kind of awareness.
She has noticed something.
You know she has.
Your father, meanwhile, appears perfectly at ease.
Which might be the most troubling thing in the room.
“As I was saying,” he continues, turning slightly toward Ambessa, “General Medarda has offered some... interesting perspectives regarding our northern defenses.”
The word interesting is doing an extraordinary amount of work.
You allow your eyes to flick briefly toward Ambessa.
She inclines her head slightly, acknowledging the attention without interrupting.
A performer who knows precisely when to speak.
One of the ministers clears his throat.
“With respect, Your Majesty, Noxian military structures differ significantly from ours. I’m not certain how applicable—”
Ambessa sets her goblet down.
The sound is soft.
Yet the entire table falls quiet.
“I would never presume to dictate how your kingdom defends itself,” she says calmly.
Her voice is low.
Measured.
Controlled.
“But I have fought wars across half the continent. If there is anything in that experience that may be useful to you, it would be discourteous not to offer it.”
The minister hesitates.
Your father smiles slightly.
“And what exactly would you suggest?”
Ambessa’s gaze drifts across the table.
Studying the maps.
The markers.
The arrangement of forces carefully laid out in colored ink.
When she speaks again, her tone remains almost conversational.
“You defend your borders as though your enemies will announce themselves.”
A faint ripple of discomfort moves through the council.
One of the generals frowns.
“Our scouts—”
“—are excellent,” Ambessa interrupts gently.
“And they will warn you exactly one day before your enemies arrive.”
Silence settles again.
Your father leans forward slightly.
“And that is insufficient?”
Ambessa’s lips curve faintly.
“For most armies? No.”
A pause.
Then—
“But Noxus does not send most armies.”
The words are not a threat.
They are simply stated.
Which somehow makes them heavier.
Your mother’s voice enters the conversation for the first time.
Calm.
Elegant.
Dangerously observant.
“And yet Noxus has not marched on our borders.”
Ambessa turns toward her.
The two women regard one another across the length of the table.
There is a quiet intelligence in your mother’s gaze that has unsettled many diplomats before.
It does not seem to unsettle Ambessa at all.
“No,” the general agrees.
“Not yet.”
The room tightens.
Your father chuckles lightly, waving a hand as though dismissing the tension before it can settle too deeply.
“I suspect that if Noxus intended to invade us, we would already know.”
Ambessa does not contradict him.
Instead she lifts her goblet again.
“A kingdom that assumes it will always have time to react,” she says quietly, “rarely does.”
The council shifts uneasily.
But your father appears thoughtful rather than offended.
Which is exactly the reaction Ambessa wanted.
You can see it in the way she leans back again, giving the conversation space to breathe as though she has already planted the idea she came to deliver.
Your mother, however, is not finished.
“And yet,” the queen says slowly, “you offer these warnings with remarkable generosity.”
Ambessa turns her head slightly.
“Generosity?”
“Yes.”
Your mother’s smile is polite.
Composed.
Sharp around the edges.
“You are advising a kingdom that is not your own.”
Ambessa studies her for a moment.
Then—
“I admire strength.”
Your mother arches a brow.
“And you see strength here?”
Ambessa’s gaze shifts.
Not to the king.
Not to the council.
To you.
Only for a moment.
But it is enough to make your stomach tighten.
“I see potential,” she says.
Your father seems pleased by that answer.
Your mother does not.
She watches Ambessa the way a hawk watches movement in tall grass — patient, calculating, waiting for the moment when observation becomes certainty.
“And what would Noxus want in return for such helpful advice?” the queen asks lightly.
Ambessa smiles.
Not wide.
Not obvious.
Just enough to suggest amusement.
“Noxus respects ambition.”
Your mother’s eyes flick briefly toward you.
Then back to the general.
“And if our ambitions differ from yours?”
Ambessa lifts her goblet again.
“If they did,” she says softly, “we would not be sitting at the same table.”
The room falls quiet once more.
Your father exhales thoughtfully.
“Well,” he says at last, tapping a finger against the map, “regardless of the philosophy behind it, I admit the strategic logic is compelling.”
Of course it is.
Ambessa Medarda did not rise to power by offering weak arguments.
One of the generals nods reluctantly.
“If we reposition the western garrison—”
“—you expose the river pass,” another interrupts.
Ambessa watches them debate.
Listening.
Observing.
Saying nothing.
And somehow, despite her silence, the conversation continues to orbit around the ideas she introduced only minutes earlier.
You feel it happening.
The shift.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
Your father glances toward you suddenly.
“What do you think?”
The entire table looks at you.
You sit very still for a moment.
Then you lean forward slightly, studying the map as though considering the matter purely from a strategic perspective.
Which, technically, you are.
Ambessa watches you.
Patient.
Interested.
You can feel it without looking up.
“If the western garrison moves,” you say calmly, “the river pass does become vulnerable.”
One of the ministers nods in agreement.
“But only if an army approaches openly.”
You move one of the markers on the map.
Sliding it across the table with careful precision.
“If the enemy advances in smaller units instead,” you continue, “our current formations would not detect them until they were already past the outer watch lines.”
A quiet murmur spreads through the council.
You finally look up.
Your gaze meets Ambessa’s.
“And that,” you finish evenly, “would be a problem.”
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then Ambessa smiles.
Not mocking.
Not victorious.
Something quieter.
Almost approving.
“Yes,” she says softly.
“It would.”
Your father laughs.
“See? Cooperation already.”
Your mother does not laugh.
She studies both of you instead.
And though she says nothing—
you are almost certain she understands far more about what is happening in this room than anyone else at the table.
Because while the council debates troop movements and border strategy—
Ambessa Medarda is not studying the map.
She is studying you.
And somehow—
slowly—
patiently—
the battlefield is shifting beneath your feet.
The meeting does not end quickly.
Councils rarely do.
What begins as a discussion of borders stretches gradually into trade routes, mining rights, taxation proposals, grain forecasts for the coming winter. The room grows warmer as the sun lowers beyond the tall western windows, amber light fading slowly into muted gold and finally into the cool gray of approaching evening.
Candles are lit.
Servants pass quietly along the walls, replacing goblets and clearing scattered parchment.
And still the conversation continues.
Through all of it, Ambessa Medarda speaks only when necessary.
Which, you realize with growing irritation, makes every word she does offer carry twice the weight.
She does not dominate the discussion.
She redirects it.
A quiet comment about military efficiency becomes a broader conversation about infrastructure. A passing observation about supply lines turns into an entire debate about mining output from the northern ridges.
Every path leads back—subtly, carefully—to the same conclusion.
The value of deeper extraction.
The importance of the mineral Noxus desires.
You notice the pattern.
Your mother notices it too.
Your father, unfortunately, seems pleased by the productivity of the discussion.
At one point he laughs openly, leaning back in his chair.
“I had not expected such a productive council today.”
Ambessa inclines her head slightly.
“Good strategy thrives on conversation.”
Her gaze flickers briefly to you again.
“Even when that conversation is… spirited.”
Your jaw tightens.
Across the table, your mother’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly.
The meeting drags on another hour.
By the time your father finally rises, stretching slightly as he presses his palms against the table, the sky beyond the windows has darkened into deep twilight.
“Well,” the king says with a satisfied exhale, “I believe we’ve exhausted the topic for one evening.”
Chairs scrape softly against the stone floor as the council members begin to stand.
Some gather their papers.
Others exchange quiet conversations about the proposals discussed.
The slow, natural chaos of a meeting dissolving.
You rise as well, smoothing the fabric of your sleeves as though nothing in the past several hours has unsettled you.
Across the table, Ambessa stands.
For a moment the two of you remain where you are, separated by the length of the council table and the scattered remains of maps and ink.
Then your father approaches her.
“General Medarda,” he says warmly, offering his hand.
She accepts it.
“I appreciate your insight today.”
“The appreciation is mutual,” Ambessa replies smoothly.
Your mother steps forward next.
Unlike the king, she does not offer her hand immediately.
Instead she studies Ambessa for a quiet moment.
“Your experience is… impressive.”
Ambessa meets her gaze without flinching.
“I’ve had many opportunities to learn.”
A pause.
Your mother finally extends her hand.
“I imagine you have.”
The handshake is brief.
Polite.
But something unspoken passes between them in that moment — a tension so thin it might almost be imagined.
Your mother releases her first.
“We will speak again soon,” the queen says lightly.
Ambessa smiles faintly.
“I look forward to it.”
The council chamber begins to empty.
Ministers drift toward the doors in small clusters, their voices echoing softly against the tall stone walls. The generals linger longer, still arguing about supply chains and border posts.
You take advantage of the movement.
The moment the path toward the door clears, you step away from the table.
Your intention is simple.
Leave.
Quietly.
Without drawing attention.
Without allowing Ambessa another opportunity to corner you.
The corridor outside the council chamber is long and dimly lit, torches casting warm pools of light across the polished stone floor.
The air feels cooler here.
You exhale slowly as you step into it, the tension in your shoulders loosening by the smallest degree.
Not safety.
But distance.
Footsteps echo behind you as other members of the council begin to leave the chamber.
You walk steadily down the hall.
Not rushing.
Never rushing.
A princess does not flee from her own council chamber.
Even if every instinct in your body is screaming to do exactly that.
You reach the intersection where the corridor branches toward the eastern wing—
—and a voice stops you.
“Princess.”
You freeze.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
But the pause is there.
A single heartbeat.
Then you turn.
Ambessa stands several paces behind you.
The rest of the council has already moved further down the hall in the opposite direction. Their voices echo faintly in the distance, growing quieter with each passing moment.
Which means—
you are alone.
Again.
Ambessa approaches slowly.
Not threatening.
Not hurried.
Just a steady, measured stride that eats away the distance between you with quiet inevitability.
Torchlight flickers along the dark edges of her armor.
You force yourself to remain still as she stops a few feet away.
Too close.
Close enough that you can see better the scar along the edge of her chin, close to her lips almost.
Close enough to hear the slow rhythm of her breathing.
“You left quickly,” she observes.
Your chin lifts slightly.
“I have responsibilities.”
Her eyes flick briefly down the corridor behind you.
“Of course.”
Silence settles between you.
The castle feels strangely quiet at this hour. Somewhere far away a servant laughs softly, the sound echoing faintly before disappearing again into the stone.
Ambessa studies you.
Slowly.
The same way a strategist studies a battlefield map.
“You did well in the council.”
The compliment is delivered so casually it almost sounds like an afterthought.
You do not thank her.
“You already knew that.”
Her mouth curves slightly.
“Yes.”
Your fingers curl against your sleeve.
“What do you want?”
She considers the question.
“Conversation.”
You almost laugh.
Instead, your voice comes out colder than intended.
“You have spent the last three months attempting conversation.”
Ambessa tilts her head slightly.
“And you have spent three months refusing it.”
“That should tell you something.”
“It does.”
Her gaze does not leave yours.
“It tells me you are stubborn.”
A beat passes.
Then—
“I admire that.”
You exhale slowly through your nose.
“I’m not interested in your admiration.”
Ambessa’s expression does not change.
“I know.”
The honesty of the response irritates you more than any insult could have.
You shift your weight slightly.
“If that was all—”
“It wasn’t.”
Of course it wasn’t.
Ambessa’s gaze drifts briefly toward the distant curve of the corridor where the last of the council members disappeared.
Then back to you.
“You’re afraid.”
Your stomach tightens.
“I’m not.”
She watches you quietly.
The corner of her mouth lifts.
“Lying does not suit you.”
Your voice sharpens.
“You presume a great deal.”
“Do I?”
Another pause.
Then she steps slightly closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough that the space between you feels narrower.
“I’ve commanded armies,” she says softly.
“I know what fear looks like.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears now.
“Then perhaps you should look elsewhere.”
Ambessa studies your face.
The tension in your jaw.
The way your shoulders remain perfectly straight despite the rigid line of your spine.
Finally she chuckles.
Low.
Quiet.
Almost thoughtful.
“You’re doing it again.”
Your brows knit slightly.
“Doing what?”
“Pretending.”
The word lands heavier than expected.
Her voice drops a fraction lower.
“As if you believe control is the same thing as safety.”
You feel heat rise in your chest.
“You know nothing about me.”
Ambessa’s eyes darken slightly.
“I know enough.”
A long silence stretches between you.
Then she says something that makes the air feel thinner.
“You’re going to lose this fight.”
The words are not cruel.
They are simply stated.
A fact.
Your hands tighten at your sides.
“I’m not fighting.”
Ambessa smiles faintly.
“Yes,” she says.
“You are.”
You stare at her.
For a moment neither of you speaks.
Then—
from somewhere behind Ambessa—
a door opens.
Footsteps echo faintly.
Voices approaching from deeper within the castle.
Ambessa glances briefly toward the sound.
When she looks back at you, her expression has shifted slightly.
Less amused.
More focused.
“Your mother is watching.”
Your breath catches.
“What?”
Ambessa nods subtly toward the far end of the corridor.
You follow the direction of her gaze.
At the distant intersection of hallways, half concealed by shadow and torchlight—
stands the queen.
She is not close enough to hear your conversation.
But she is very clearly observing the two of you.
Your stomach drops.
Ambessa looks back at you.
“That,” she says quietly, “will be interesting.”
Your pulse pounds.
“What do you mean?”
Ambessa’s smile returns.
Slow.
Sharp.
Dangerously satisfied.
You almost fears she might kiss you again.
“She’s beginning to ask the right questions.”
Your mouth goes dry.
And then—
Ambessa steps back.
Just enough distance to make the space between you feel suddenly colder.
“We’ll continue this later,” she says calmly.
You stare at her.
“You assume there will be a later.”
Ambessa’s gaze lingers on your face one last time.
“Oh,” she says softly.
“There will be.”
She turns then.
Walking down the corridor toward the opposite wing of the castle without another word.
You feel it settling into the marrow of your bones — not just fear, but the awareness of instability. The quiet cracking of foundations you believed immovable. The pillars you spent your entire life reinforcing — dignity, restraint, control — now tremble under the weight of a single presence.
You do not speak.
And that silence pleases her.
Ambessa sees it immediately.
The way your breath no longer comes evenly. The way your shoulders remain squared but no longer relaxed. The way your eyes — wide, alert, furious — carry something new.
Not surrender. But calculation.
Your silence is not defeat.
It is impact.
And impact is proof.
Inside her, something shifts — something darker than flirtation, sharper than amusement. She feels it like hunger creeping along her ribs. It would be so easy. So painfully easy. To close the space entirely. To take. To claim. To end this slow unraveling in a single decisive motion.
She imagines it for a fleeting second — you dragged closer, seated where she chooses, your sharp mouth reduced to breathless silence, your intelligence redirected toward pleasing instead of resisting. She imagines you beside her in Noxus, dressed in darker silks, sharp and ornamental, sitting on her lap during council sessions, speaking when prompted, clever and contained.
The image is intoxicating.
It irritates her.
Because she could.
The thought lingers.
Why is this taking so long?
She knows how conquest works. She has ended wars faster than this. Cities crumble when properly pressured. Armies bend. Monarchs kneel.
And yet here you stand.
Small.
Trembling.
Defiant.
She studies you more closely.
Ah.
That’s why.
This is entertainment.
The hunt is sweeter when the prey believes escape is possible. The thrill is not in immediate capture — it is in the narrowing. The slow tightening of options. The hope flickering just long enough to be meaningful before it is extinguished.
A quiet, almost inaudible chuckle leaves her throat.
You flinch at the sound.
Your nails dig into your palms harder than you realize, thin crescents biting into skin until something warm slides between your fingers. A drop of blood. Then another. Not deep enough to harm you — just enough to anchor you.
Pain steadies you.
You lift your chin.
You put the mask back on.
If she sees fear, she sees victory.
You will not give her that.
“You’re quiet,” Ambessa says softly.
Her tone is conversational.
Too conversational.
You do not respond.
She steps slightly to the side, not blocking you, not cornering you, merely adjusting her angle so that you must look at her to avoid turning away.
“Are you imagining your kingdom burning?” she asks lightly. “Or are you imagining me in chains?”
Your jaw tightens.
You meet her eyes.
There is no softness in them now. No mockery. No overt cruelty. Just certainty.
“I am imagining none of those things,” you say carefully. Your voice is steadier than you feel. “I am imagining the moment you miscalculate.”
Her brow lifts slightly.
“You think I will?” she asks.
“I know you will.”
The words are clean.
Precise.
You release your palms, ignoring the faint smear of red against your skin.
“You mistake persistence for inevitability,” you continue. “You mistake power for permanence. Empires fall. Generals bleed. And when you finally open a gap — because you will — I will be there.”
There is no tremor in your voice now.
“If you drag me to Noxus,” you add quietly, “if you chain me in silk and call it privilege, if you parade me as some ornament beside you — there will come a moment when you look away.”
Her expression does not change.
“And that,” you finish, “is when my blade will find your spine.”
The room stills.
No raised voice.
No dramatic gesture.
Just truth spoken plainly.
Ambessa watches you.
Long.
Carefully.
Then, slowly — she smiles.
Not wide.
Not mocking.
Amused.
You think you have threatened her.
You have, in a way.
But not how you intended.
“Good,” she says.
The word lands heavier than anger would have.
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t try.”
The hunger in her gaze does not dim.
If anything, it sharpens.
And for the first time since this began, you understand something worse than fear:
She wants you to fight.
And you do.
The words you threw at her still hang between you like smoke — blade, spine, inevitability. You expect retaliation. Expect rage. Expect the cold edge of military authority.
Instead, she watches you as if you have just offered her something precious.
The silence thickens.
The room feels smaller now, the air too warm, too dense to breathe properly. You become aware of every sound: the faint crackle of torches in the corridor beyond the door, the quiet rustle of fabric when Ambessa shifts her weight, the rapid, traitorous rhythm of your own pulse.
She does not step closer.
She does not step away.
She simply exists there — broad, grounded, immovable — as though the floor was poured around her feet.
In her mind, the image of you does not fade. You with a dagger in hand. You with fire in your eyes. You promising to kill her.
It should irritate her. It doesn’t. It thrills her.
She imagines it — not as tragedy, not as threat — but as something almost beautiful. If she were to die one day, if steel ever pierced her flesh, it would be fitting for it to come from something so sharp and furious and alive.
From you.
She does not fear that possibility.
She almost welcomes it.
And that realization is what makes her dangerous.
Across from her, your thoughts fracture into a thousand pieces.
Leave.
Run.
Scream.
Call the guards.
No — don’t call the guards.
Father.
Council.
Noxus.
Every scenario unfolds too quickly in your mind, none of them ending in safety. You measure the distance to the door. The weight of the table behind you. The angle of her shoulders. The way her stance suggests readiness without aggression.
She is not lunging.
She is not restraining you.
She is waiting.
That waiting is worse.
Your chest rises and falls faster now despite your effort to steady it. Your tongue feels dry. Your temples throb. You become acutely aware of how alone you are in this room.
You pray.
Not aloud.
Never aloud.
You call on the old gods your kingdom reveres — those of river, stone and sun, of patience and endurance. You ask for clarity. For distance. For interruption.
Anything.
The knock at the door feels like divine intervention.
You flinch.
Ambessa does not.
“Your Highness?” a servant’s voice calls from beyond the wood. “The hour for dinner approaches. You are expected in the hall shortly.”
Relief crashes through you so violently it almost makes you dizzy.
“Yes,” you answer, forcing steadiness into your tone. “I will attend.”
You send a silent offering upward — gratitude, promise, anything — for the interruption. You will light candles later. You will leave gifts at the shrine. You will thank every god who still listens.
You step towards the door.
Ambessa moves aside without protest, allowing space.
You nearly reach the threshold when her hand closes around your wrist.
Not violently.
Firmly.
The contact burns.
Your breath catches as you turn back to face her. The room narrows again, the interruption suddenly fragile. Her thumb rests over the pulse point in your wrist, feeling it hammer beneath her touch.
“I’ll expect poison in my wine,” she says quietly.
Her tone is almost amused.
Then she releases you.
Just like that.
No struggle. No escalation.
She steps back, granting you the path.
The message lingers heavier than the touch.
You leave.
This time, you do not walk with measured grace.
You move quickly — almost a run disguised as urgency — down the corridor, skirts gathered slightly in your fists. Servants press themselves to the walls as you pass. You do not look at them.
You reach your chambers and push the doors open yourself.
Empty.
Clean.
No boxes.
No silk.
No lavender clinging to the air like intrusion.
Your shoulders sag for a single, unguarded moment.
“Leave me,” you tell your attendants when they approach. “I will prepare myself.”
They hesitate — confused — but obey.
You step into the bathing chamber. The water is already drawn, steam curling upward in soft spirals. You undress quickly, dropping fabric without care, lowering yourself into the heat.
The water envelopes you.
You sink deeper.
Your thoughts do not quiet.
They multiply.
Strategies.
Weaknesses.
Alliances.
How much your father knows.
How much he doesn’t.
What Ambessa truly wants.
Your stomach tightens painfully. You realize you have not eaten properly in days. You have not slept well in weeks. The stress coils tighter, refusing to release even in warmth.
You imagine Noxus.
You imagine iron banners.
You imagine yourself there.
You stay in the bath too long. When you finally emerge, the air feels colder.
You allow your attendants to return. They dress you in blue and white, fastening gold at your wrists, smoothing fabric across your hips. Normally, you enjoy this ritual — the layering of identity, the quiet competence of hands you trust.
Tonight, it suffocates you.
Each tie of ribbon feels like restraint.
Each clasp like ownership.
You stand still while they adjust the final fold of your gown, staring at your reflection. You do not look like prey.
You look regal.
Polished.
Prepared.
But beneath the silk and gold, you feel like something being adorned for presentation.
Like a hound brushed and bowed before being handed to its next master. When they finish, you nod once.
“Let’s go.”
You step into the corridor again, your ladies-in-waiting flanking you.
The dining hall waits ahead, the corridor feels longer than it did an hour ago.
Your gown drapes flawlessly around you, the blue deep and royal, the white immaculate, gold resting against your skin like quiet authority. You should feel armored in it.
Instead, you feel slowed.
Each step toward the dining hall carries resistance, as though the air itself thickens the closer you draw. Your shoulders are straight, your chin lifted, but beneath the elegance something drags at you — hesitation. Reluctance. A tightening that presses down on your lungs and steals half a breath at a time.
You do not want to dine with her.
You do not want to sit across from her.
You do not want to exist in the same room for another minute.
The soft footfalls of your ladies-in-waiting surround you, careful, respectful. They speak in low tones at first — about the seating arrangements, the expected courses, the visiting dignitaries who might attend future gatherings.
Then the tone shifts.
It is subtle.
“Your Highness,” one of them begins gently, walking half a step behind you. “There are… conversations.”
You do not look at her.
“There are always conversations.”
A second voice joins, softer. “It concerns tonight.”
Your stomach tightens.
“What of it?”
A pause. Then carefully: “It is said His Majesty wishes to… encourage familiarity.”
The words are chosen with surgical care. You feel the meaning before it is spoken fully.
“With the General,” the first finishes.
The corridor seems to narrow.
Another murmur follows — hesitant, but impossible to unsay. “Some believe that an alliance through marriage would strengthen Itaúna immeasurably.”
Your pulse spikes.
Your step falters just slightly — enough that the ladies notice.
“They believe,” the second continues, trying to soften it, “that proximity might… soften resistance.”
Your vision sharpens painfully.
“They believe,” the first adds quietly, “that if you were given time… you might reconsider.”
You stop walking. The silence that follows is not gentle.
“Reconsider?” you repeat. Your voice is not raised.
It is worse.
It is tight.
Your ladies exchange uncertain glances.
“Your Highness, we only repeat what is whispered—”
“You repeat it because you think I do not know,” you cut in, sharper than intended. “Because you think I am naive enough to be maneuvered.”
The words land harder than you meant them to.
The women lower their heads immediately.
Shame pricks through your anger.
You inhale slowly, trying to pull yourself back from the edge. The irritation that has lived beneath your skin since the guest chamber rises too easily now.
“I apologize,” you say after a moment, though the stiffness remains. “That was unnecessary.”
You do not look at them as you speak.
Your fists tighten briefly at your sides.
You hate this.
You hate how she unsettles you. How she disrupts the calm you cultivated for years. How your temper frays faster now, how your control slips just enough to be noticeable.
Ambessa does not even need to speak to unravel you.
The thought makes your jaw clench.
You resume walking.
“Let no one assume my will is malleable,” you add quietly. “Not for politics. Not for strategy.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” they murmur in unison.
But you see it in their posture — the concern. They are not questioning your strength, they are questioning the scale of the opponent.
The doors to the dining hall loom ahead. Tall. Carved. Imposing. They open before you reach them.
The hall is already lit by chandeliers and wall sconces, candlelight catching gold accents and polished stone. The long table gleams beneath careful arrangement — silverware aligned, goblets waiting, plates positioned with ritual precision.
Every head turns.
You step inside.
The transformation is immediate.
Your spine lengthens. Your expression smooths. Your gaze cools.
The mask of heir settles into place as if it never left.
Your sisters are already seated.
Alanys sits near the center, posture proper but shoulders slightly stiff. Miryan leans toward one of Ambessa’s soldiers, asking questions with animated curiosity, her laughter light but calculated.
Ambessa sits at ease.
She looks entirely comfortable.
When her eyes find you, something shifts — not surprise, not hunger, but satisfaction. She lifts her wine goblet slowly, holding your gaze as she tilts it to her lips and drinks.
Not breaking eye contact.
It is not a toast.
It is a challenge.
You do not react.
You move toward your seat with measured grace.
Alanys shifts immediately, drawing her chair slightly closer to yours, subtly creating space between you and Ambessa. It is small. It is quiet. It is deliberate.
You sit beside her.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then, low enough not to carry beyond the immediate air between you, Alanys murmurs, “You look composed.”
You keep your eyes forward. “I am.”
She does not look convinced.
“You’re pale,” she adds softly.
“I am tired.”
She hesitates, then leans closer still. “I heard what Father intends.”
Your fingers tighten around the edge of the tablecloth.
“It will not happen,” you say.
Alanys studies your profile.
“She frightens you,” she says — not accusing, not mocking. Simply observing.
You swallow.
“She angers me,” you correct.
A beat.
Alanys nods once, though you both know the difference is thin.
The murmur of the hall shifts.
Footsteps approach.
Your parents enter together — regal, warm, controlled.
The King smiles broadly, the Queen radiant at his side. They take their seats with practiced ease, raising their goblets toward Ambessa in polite acknowledgment.
“General Medarda,” your father says warmly, “we are honored.”
Your mother inclines her head gracefully. “May this evening strengthen bonds between our houses.”
Glass touches glass.
Wine catches candlelight.
And beneath the civility, beneath the silk and silver and careful laughter, you feel the tightening continue.
The hunt has not paused.
It has moved into public view.
Crystal sings softly as glasses settle against polished wood.
Your father gestures for the first course to be served, voice warm, measured, unshaken. The Queen mirrors him seamlessly, her smile composed, diplomatic, luminous beneath candlelight.
The transformation is immediate.
Your spine lengthens. Your shoulders settle. Your breathing slows into something that looks like calm. The mask fits as if it had never slipped. No mistake in front of them.
Alanys notices the shift.
She adjusts her chair — not obviously, not theatrically — just enough. She moves even closer to you. Closer than usual.
The scrape of wood against stone is subtle but intentional.
Ambessa is near enough so that her presence hums along your skin like distant thunder. Close enough that you can feel when she moves. Close enough that if Alanys were not there, the space between you would feel intimate.
Alanys leans her elbow faintly toward your side, creating a barrier without appearing to do so.
Ambessa notices.
She does not react.
Instead, she settles further into her chair, one arm resting along its back in relaxed authority. Her goblet rests in her hand, stem balanced effortlessly between long fingers.
She looks entirely comfortable.
As if this is not your hall.
As if this is not your kingdom.
As if she has always belonged here.
Servants move with practiced grace, placing plates before each guest. The scent of roasted river fowl, citrus glaze, and crushed herbs rises gently into the air.
You cannot taste it.
Your father begins easily. “We are intrigued by Noxus’ interest in the deep-vein mineral,” he says, cutting neatly into his meal. “It is notoriously difficult to refine.”
Ambessa inclines her head slightly. “Difficulty is rarely discouraging.”
Her voice carries — low, steady, deliberate.
“War demands durability,” she continues. “Your stone does not fracture once properly shaped.”
Your mother smiles politely. “Itaúna prides itself on refinement.”
Across the small distance created by Alanys’ protective maneuver, you feel Ambessa’s gaze settle along your profile.
Not openly.
Not rudely.
Just enough.
You lift your goblet to your lips to avoid looking back.
The wine is sharp.
Too sharp.
Your father laughs lightly at a comment about supply chains. “You travel personally for negotiations of this scale. That speaks to trust.”
“For what is valuable,” Ambessa replies calmly, “I prefer to observe firsthand.”
The words are neutral. The weight of them is not.
Alanys shifts beside you again, pressing her shoulder just slightly against yours. Beneath the table, her hand brushes your wrist for half a second.
You are not alone.
Miryan, across the table near Ambessa’s soldier, fills the air with energetic curiosity. She asks about Noxian marching formations, about armor craftsmanship, about how different climates affect weapon maintenance.
Her laughter rings out bright and deliberate.
You know what she is doing. If she keeps the room alive, the tension becomes less visible.
Ambessa answers Miryan with measured politeness, but her attention drifts back to you in quiet intervals.
She does not stare constantly. She doesn’t need to. She watches when you adjust your posture.
When your fork hesitates above your plate. When your breathing shifts half a beat too fast.
Your father turns slightly toward you. “Our daughter has taken a keen interest in optimizing deep extraction,” he says with unmistakable pride. “She believes the long-term yield will define Itaúna’s future.”
Ambessa’s gaze sharpens subtly.
“Your Highness,” she says, directing the words past Alanys’ shoulder, “is that so?”
You lift your chin.
“I concern myself with sustainability,” you reply evenly. “A kingdom that exhausts itself too quickly has no future to defend.”
Ambessa’s lips curve faintly.
“Prudent,” she murmurs. “Long-term thinking is rare.”
Alanys’ voice enters softly, though there is steel beneath it. “Itaúna does not build its legacy on conquest.”
Ambessa’s eyes flick toward her briefly — assessing.
“Nor does Noxus conquer without purpose,” she replies.
The exchange is polite. It is also a blade wrapped in silk.
You decide not to let it rest.
“And what does purpose look like to Noxus?” you ask calmly.
Your father’s gaze flicks to you for half a second — cautioning.
Ambessa does not hesitate.
“Clarity,” she answers. “Recognizing what will eventually bend… and choosing whether to wait.”
The words slide across the table like quiet thunder.
You feel them.
Not as threat.
As promise.
Conversation continues — tariffs, river routes, shipment schedules. Laughter surfaces in intervals. Glass touches glass again.
But beneath the civility, beneath the measured tones and refined etiquette, the tension coils tighter.
Every head at the table tilts subtly. Your smile appears immediately.
“I’m listening,” you say smoothly. “It would be foolish not to.”
Your father nods approvingly. Ambessa lifts her goblet again.
This time, when she drinks, her eyes remain on you.
Not challenging.
Not overtly possessive.
Simply aware.
As if measuring how long your composure can last.
You force yourself to take a bite of food.
To chew.
To swallow.
Under the table, your fingers curl against your palm — not breaking skin this time, but pressing hard enough to remind yourself you are real.
You will not falter here.
You will not bleed here.
But the suffocation builds.
Not from anything she has done.
Not from anything she has said.
From how easily she sits within your court.
Not as invader.
Not as guest.
But as something steadily weaving herself into its structure.
And you begin to understand the shape of this hunt.
It is not loud.
It is not rushed.
It is patient.
And it has already entered the walls.
Your thinking breaks.
The second course arrives.
You do not remember finishing the first.
The servants move gracefully between chairs, refilling wine, clearing plates, replacing silver. The rhythm of the evening continues — refined, orchestrated, dignified.
Your parents are radiant hosts.
Your father speaks animatedly now of trade expansion along the eastern rivers, of potential collaborations, of how Itaúna’s stone might be refined more efficiently with Noxian engineering support.
You listen.
You keep your posture immaculate.
You do not look toward Ambessa unless necessary.
That is when she strikes.
Not with threat.
With praise.
“Your Majesty,” Ambessa says smoothly, addressing your father. “Your daughter possesses a rare quality.”
Your spine stiffens before you can stop it.
Your father turns toward her, pleased already. “Oh?”
Alanys goes still beside you.
Ambessa’s tone is measured, respectful — perfectly calibrated for court.
“She does not speak unnecessarily,” the General continues. “She listens. Observes. Calculates.”
Your mother smiles softly. “She was trained to.”
Ambessa nods slightly. “Many are trained. Few apply it so… instinctively.”
The words are chosen carefully.
Complimenting you.
Elevating you.
Publicly.
You force your expression into something modest.
“I am still learning,” you say lightly.
Ambessa turns her gaze to you now, not invasive — almost admiring.
“Learning implies uncertainty,” she replies. “You do not seem uncertain.”
Your father chuckles warmly. “She hides it well.”
You feel the pressure building in your chest.
This is not harmless.
This is positioning.
Ambessa leans slightly forward — not invading space, not breaching decorum — but enough that the shift is visible to the table.
“Noxus values strength,” she says calmly. “But strength without discipline fractures. Your daughter… does not fracture.”
Your mother’s eyes shine faintly at that.
Alanys’ fingers curl against the tablecloth.
Miryan glances up from her conversation, sensing something beneath the surface.
You feel every gaze at the table weigh you differently now.
Not just heir.
Asset.
Ambessa continues, tone conversational. “I would wager she would thrive in any court. Even one less… restrained.”
The implication hums softly beneath the words.
Your father does not hear it.
He hears opportunity.
“Itaúna raises its heirs to endure,” he replies proudly.
Ambessa inclines her head in agreement. “Endurance is admirable.”
Her eyes flick to you briefly.
“It makes resistance… interesting.”
The word slips past so smoothly no one but you seems to catch it.
Your jaw tightens infinitesimally.
You will not react.
You will not betray the tremor beneath your ribs.
Your mother gestures toward you. “She has always been stubborn.”
Ambessa smiles.
“Yes,” she says quietly. “I’ve noticed.”
The compliment lands like a collar disguised as silk.
You cannot refuse praise without appearing ungrateful.
You cannot reject admiration without insulting a guest.
So you do what you were raised to do.
You endure.
“General Medarda is generous in her assessment,” you reply evenly. “I am simply devoted to my kingdom.”
Ambessa tilts her head faintly.
“And devotion,” she says softly, “is a powerful motivator.”
Your father nods, satisfied. “Indeed.”
Wine is poured again.
Laughter rises faintly from Miryan’s side of the table.
But beneath the lightness, something shifts.
The table no longer sees tension.
It sees compatibility.
Respect.
Intellectual parity.
Your father’s eyes rest on you and Ambessa in quiet consideration — not suspicion, not awareness of danger — but possibility.
Alanys feels it too.
Her knee presses against yours under the table.
Your fork rests untouched again.
Ambessa does not need to touch you.
She has placed you beside her in the minds of your parents.
She has framed you as worthy of Noxus.
She has complimented you into proximity.
And there is no polite way to refuse it.
You lift your goblet again.
Your hand does not shake.
But it takes effort.
And when Ambessa meets your gaze once more, there is no overt triumph there.
Welcome to CoD Indulgences! Where you can get sent to heaven ~
I put my CoD x reader smut here. 141, Konig, Los Vaqueros, anyone and everyone.
I write my default xreader as cisgender female, but if you want alt options I will do my best <3
Got a sexy blurb or HC you'd like to see? Fetish idea? Special fantasy? Something soft and precious, or hard and filthy? Send me asks!
my writing tagged under #an indulgence
various fanarts gifs and other images tagged under #an indulgence for the eyes
reblogs under #an indulgent reblog
#author has never played call of duty, so fair warning, your fav character may be written after some very fast Wikipedia delving
i will happily write dubcon, noncon, dubious morality, drugging, and other pearl clutching tropes. CWs are marked but if I miss one please either reply to the post or message me and I will add it! None of this is beta read so let me know any big typos or problems that I can fix.
KEEP MY FICS OFF YOUR AI BULLSHIT
~MASTERLIST BELOW~
TF141 x Reader
Dumb bet with the boys
Reader come marking
Somno gangbang
Mermen 141 x reader plus Part 2 here!
Body shots ask
Omegaverse heat drabble
GN!reader petplay
Stalking ask
Dildo!
You love sucking cock
No panties ask
Stripper!Reader gangbang ask now on Ao3!
Vibrator play part 1
Vibrator play part 2
Comeplay and Creampies
xReader Pegging ask
Free Use Gangbang
Cockwarming
Ghoap x Reader
Sub!Johnny sloppy seconds
Sleepy Sexy Morning
Soap x Reader
Come marking with Johnny
Horny Johnny gets punished
Sub!Soap chastity cage
Soap x Laswell x Reader
SoapGaz x reader overstim
Soap CNC
Brat v Brat mud wrestling ask
Public fucking
Sunburn (no smut)
Pregnancy kink
Pregnancy kink w baby trapping
Drinking with Simon's Girlfriend (hinted Soap x Reader only) (part 2)
Anger does not dissipate simply because you demand it to. It lingers, clinging to your body in sharp, humiliating ways — in the tremor of your fingers, in the tightness of your jaw, in the shallow breath you keep having to correct.
Your chamber should have been safe.
That is what unsettles you most.
Not the gifts. Not the letters. Not even the audacity of Ambessa Medarda herself — but the fact that she reached you here. In the one place that was never meant to be touched by expectation or negotiation or threat. Your own rooms. Your own space. The walls that have watched you grow, pray, weep, prepare.
You pace from one end of the room to the other, skirts whispering angrily against the floor. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, too calm, too indifferent. The scent of powder still lingers in the air, and it makes your stomach twist.
Humiliated.
That is the word you refuse to say out loud.
Your hands curl into fists at your sides as the realization settles deeper: she did not force her way in. She did not violate protocol. She did something worse.
She was invited.
By tradition. By diplomacy. By the very structures you were raised to believe would protect you.
You stop near the window and brace your palms against the cold stone, grounding yourself in the ache. Your reflection stares back faintly in the glass — composed, regal, untouched. A lie so practiced it almost convinces you.
You breathe in.
Once.
Your chest barely rises.
Twice.
Your breath catches, sharp and uneven.
Again.
This time you hold it. Force it deeper. Slower. You close your eyes, counting not heartbeats but rules. Posture. Control. Expression. Silence. The thousand invisible disciplines that have shaped you into something presentable.
You are furious.
You are not allowed to be.
The anger burns behind your ribs, hot and unyielding, but you press it down — not extinguishing it, merely containing it. Folding it inward where it cannot be seen. Where it cannot be used against you.
By the time you straighten, the tremor has not vanished — but it is mastered.
You smooth your skirts. Lift your chin. Adjust your breathing until it no longer betrays you.
You are not calm. You are controlled.
That will have to be enough.
You leave your chambers with measured steps, the door closing softly behind you. The corridor stretches ahead, long and cool, banners hanging motionless along the stone. Every footstep echoes too loudly, as if the castle itself is listening.
Your pace is brisk — sharper than usual.
You are halfway down the corridor when you feel it.
Not a sound.
Not a touch.
A presence.
“Are you running from something,” a voice asks quietly, “or towards it?”
You stop.
Alanys stands a few steps behind you, hands folded in front of her, expression unreadable. She must have been following you — close enough to sense the shift in your movement, far enough not to interrupt.
You do not turn immediately.
“I’m busy,” you say. Your voice is steady. Almost.
She doesn’t move. “You threw the presents into the fire.”
Your fingers flex. “They were unwanted.”
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
You turn then, and whatever Alanys expected to see on your face — fear, distress, tears — is not there. What she finds instead makes her still. Your composure is intact. Your restraint is strained to the breaking point.
“They do not belong to me,” you say carefully. “And neither does the assumption behind them.”
Alanys studies you, quieter now. “You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprises you both.
She takes a step closer. “She frightened you.”
“No,” you snap — too fast, too sharp. You close your eyes briefly, recalibrating. When you open them again, your voice is lower. “She insulted me.”
The corridor feels narrower suddenly.
“You trusted these walls,” Alanys says softly. “Didn’t you?”
You do not answer.
She exhales. “You’re going to the council chamber.”
“Yes.”
“With Father.”
“Yes.”
There is a pause — fragile, tense.
“Be careful,” Alanys says at last. “You’re holding yourself together like glass.”
Your mouth curves into something that is not quite a smile. “Then let’s hope no one is foolish enough to strike.”
You turn away before she can respond, resuming your path down the corridor. Your steps echo again, sharp and deliberate, each one carrying you closer to whatever waits beyond the next door.
You expect many things.
Resistance.
Argument.
Politics.
You do not yet expect her.
You do not knock.
You open the council chamber doors with the same certainty you have worn since childhood — as if the room will rearrange itself around your presence, as it always has.
It does not.
The first thing you notice is your father’s voice, warm, animated, carrying the easy cadence he reserves for negotiations he believes are going well.
The second is the silhouette seated opposite him.
Broad shoulders.
Stillness that is not passive.
Ambessa Medarda does not rise immediately when you enter.
She turns her head first.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And her eyes find you as if they were waiting.
For half a second — no more — your body betrays you. Your breath stutters, your spine tightens, your pulse spikes so violently you fear the sound might echo off the stone walls.
She is here.
Not in letters.
Not in silk.
Not in implication.
Here.
In your father’s council chamber.
At your table.
Your hand remains on the door a fraction too long before you release it. The wood closes behind you with a muted thud that feels far louder than it is.
Your father beams. “Ah. Perfect timing.”
Ambessa rises now.
Not hurried. Not apologetic. Not defensive.
She rises as if she had always intended to meet you here.
“Your Highness,” she says, inclining her head just enough to satisfy etiquette without surrendering an ounce of authority.
Her tone is smooth. Measured. It does not acknowledge the months of persistence, the silence, the escalation. It does not acknowledge the fire you ordered lit only hours ago.
Her eyes do.
You feel them move over you — not obviously, not crudely — but thoroughly. A calculated assessment. A quiet consumption. She does not stare. She studies.
You force a smile.
“General Medarda,” you reply sweetly, the falseness almost exquisite in its precision. “To what do we owe the honor of such a… personal visit?”
The corner of her mouth twitches — not quite a smile.
“Mutual interest,” she says. “Noxus values efficiency.”
You move further into the room, skirts whispering over stone, and take your seat beside your father without asking permission. Your posture is impeccable. Your hands fold calmly atop the table.
Only your nails press crescents into your palm.
Your father gestures toward a series of documents spread between them. “The General has expressed interest in our deep-vein mineral reserves,” he explains. “Specifically the adamantite core deposits beneath the eastern range.”
Of course she has.
Adamantite is brutal to extract. Dense beyond convenience. Nearly impossible to fracture cleanly. It has never yielded enough profit to justify full-scale expansion.
Until someone weaponizes it.
“It is a remarkable material,” Ambessa says, her voice low and composed. “Difficult to shape. Resistant to fracture. Once refined, nearly indestructible.”
Her gaze drifts to you again.
“Perfect for structures meant to endure.”
The implication hangs there.
Siege engines.
Armor.
Reinforced artillery.
War.
Your father leans forward, animated. “If Noxus is willing to invest in improved excavation methods, we could increase yield significantly. The cost has always been the primary obstacle.”
Ambessa nods. “Noxus is prepared to remove obstacles.”
There is something almost playful beneath the words.
You speak for the first time. “And in return?” you ask calmly.
Her attention sharpens.
“Shared access,” she replies. “Priority supply contracts. Military-grade refinement rights.”
Your father considers this, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “A generous proposal.”
It is not generous.
It is strategic.
Ambessa does not interrupt as you and your father discuss numbers and transport routes. She listens. She waits. Every so often, she interjects with precise clarity — correcting an assumption, refining a figure, adjusting a timeline.
She does not dominate the conversation.
She controls its direction.
And through it all, she watches you.
Not constantly. That would be obvious.
But often enough that you feel it.
You keep your gaze on the documents. On the maps. On the ink drying along the edges of revised margins.
You do not look at her unless necessary.
When you do, she does not look away.
The sun sinks lower beyond the narrow windows, painting the stone walls in amber. Hours pass — or perhaps only minutes. Time has become unreliable in her presence.
Your father finally exhales in satisfaction. “I believe we can finalize preliminary terms by morning,” he says warmly. “In the meantime, General, it would honor us to host you and your companion within the palace.”
Your stomach tightens.
“That is generous,” Ambessa replies.
Your father smiles broadly. “My daughter will personally see that you are shown to suitable quarters.”
The words land like an order.
You turn to him slightly. “Father—”
“Nonsense,” he says gently but firmly. “It is proper.”
Proper. You incline your head.
“Of course.”
When you rise, Ambessa rises with you.
Close enough now that you feel the heat of her presence without contact.
Close enough that the tension shifts from political to something more intimate and far more dangerous.
She does not speak.
She does not need to.
Her confidence is not loud. It is not arrogant in gesture. It is the quiet assurance of someone who knows the board has already shifted.
And as you move toward the door, leading the way, you understand something with cold clarity:
She did not come to negotiate stone.
She came to negotiate you.
The corridor feels narrower than it did before.
You walk ahead of them — of her — your back straight, shoulders locked in controlled rigidity. Every step echoes against stone like a declaration of distance. You refuse to look back. Refuse to check if she follows.
You know she does.
You feel her.
The awareness crawls across your spine, prickling at the base of your neck. Your pulse is too loud in your ears. Your palms are damp despite the cool air. You focus on the turnings of the corridor, on the measured geometry of the castle’s architecture, on the fact that you chose this room deliberately — far enough from your own that she could not find you without guidance.
Control.
You still have that.
Behind you, Ambessa walks without hurry.
She does not need to rush.
Her soldier falls away at some unseen signal, footsteps fading quietly until there are only two sets left — yours, quick and sharp; hers, steady and unbothered.
She watches the tension in your shoulders. The slight stiffness in your hands.
The way you speak more when irritated — words stacking too quickly, like bricks thrown rather than placed.
She has noticed that about you.
When you are calm, you are measured.
When you are angry, you unravel just enough to be interesting.
By the time you reach the guest chamber, your nerves are strung so tight you fear one wrong word will snap them entirely. You open the door and step inside first. The room is comfortable, spacious, neutral. A large bed in the corner. A polished table near the window. A small seating area. Private bathing chamber behind a carved screen.
You remain facing inward.
“This will be sufficient,” you say evenly, gesturing without turning. “You may stay here. If you prefer separate arrangements, the room across the corridor remains empty.”
Silence answers you.
Then the door clicks shut.
You turn slightly at the sound — and nearly collide with her.
She is closer than expected.
Much closer.
Ambessa does not touch you.
She does not need to.
She stands behind you, within the perimeter of your breath, her presence thick and consuming. You feel her heat against your back. The subtle shift of her weight. The way she inhales.
And for a moment — just a moment — her restraint thins.
In her mind, she devours you.
She has taken others to quiet the ache — women with similar features, similar curves, similar defiance. Prostitutes eager for coin. Princesses eager for power. It is never enough.
It has never been enough.
Because they were not you.
She wants the resistance.
The tension.
The way your pride bristles against her dominance like flint against steel.
Her teeth almost ache with it.
You step away abruptly, turning to face her, irritation spilling through your carefully crafted composure.
“Was there something unclear about the arrangements?” you ask, voice sharper than it should be.
She studies you in silence.
That silence makes you speak more.
“You have occupied my court, my council chamber, my father’s attention — is it not sufficient that you now occupy this space as well?” The words come faster now. “Or must every inch of air bend toward you?”
She tilts her head slightly.
You hate that she looks amused.
“I have endured months of your… theatrics,” you continue, gesturing vaguely. “The letters. The gifts. The absurd display. Do you truly believe persistence is a virtue when it borders on harassment?”
Her gaze lowers briefly to your mouth as you speak. You notice.
Your breath falters.
“You mistake interest for inevitability,” you say, heat rising in your chest. “You mistake conquest for entitlement. I despise everything about it. About you.”
There.
It hangs between you.
Ambessa finally speaks. “Do you?” she asks softly.
The calmness unsettles you more than anger would.
She steps closer.
You step back instinctively until the edge of the table presses into your hips. Your pulse spikes.
She braces one hand on the table beside you, not touching you, merely occupying the space that escape would require.
Her gaze drifts over your face — your eyes, your lips, the curve of your throat left bare of jewelry.
“You’re not wearing what I sent,” she observes quietly.
You laugh — sharp, brittle. “I burned some. Gave the rest away. I would never wear anything that came from Noxus… that came from you.”
Her eyes darken slightly.
“Every letter remained unopened,” you add. “I have no interest in reading the thoughts of a woman who builds her legacy on blood.”
Still she does not argue. Still she does not defend herself. And that infuriates you more.
“Say something,” you demand.
Instead, she leans in.
Not suddenly. Not violently. Slowly.
Close enough that your breath mingles.
Close enough that your anger collides with something dangerously close to heat. You mean to continue speaking — to deliver another cutting remark — but the words dissolve as her mouth brushes yours.
Her mouth touches yours.
It is brief. Testing. Deliberate.
Your mind fractures around it — anger colliding with shock, humiliation colliding with something far more dangerous and far less welcome. For one suspended heartbeat, you do not move.
She pulls back slightly.
Not retreating.
Watching.
Her eyes lock onto yours, searching — not for consent, not for permission — but for reaction. She waits, confident, certain that the silence between you will tilt in her favor.
It doesn’t.
The crack of your hand against her face splits the room.
The sound is sharp, clean, echoing against stone.
Your palm stings immediately.
Ambessa’s head turns slightly with the impact — not because it hurts, but because physics demands it. For a fraction of a second, the room holds its breath.
You are flushed from collarbone to cheekbones, breathing hard, eyes blazing with something that is no longer merely anger.
It is outrage.
“How dare you?” you demand, voice trembling not with weakness but with fury. “You think you can simply take what you want? That because you sit at war councils and crush cities under your boots you are entitled to me?”
Ambessa turns her head back slowly.
She touches her cheek once — not nursing it, merely acknowledging the contact — and then she laughs.
Low.
Amused.
It does not sting her skin.
It delights her.
“You have spirit,” she says softly.
Your nails dig into your palms again, this time, you can feel your skin starting to break.
“This is not spirit,” you snap. “This is boundaries. This is dignity. You cannot behave this way and expect submission. I am not one of your soldiers. I am not some woman you purchased with coin. I am certainly not a prostitute for you to sample at your leisure.”
The words spill faster now. You cannot seem to stop them.
“You abuse your authority,” you continue, stepping forward despite yourself. “You believe power grants you access to anything you desire. You mistake intimidation for attraction.”
Ambessa’s expression does not harden.
If anything, it softens — but not kindly.
In her mind, you are magnificent.
A small, furious creature stamping its foot against inevitability. A white-haired hare bristling before a predator it cannot outrun. She sees the fire in your eyes and does not mistake it for strength. She mistakes it for resistance worth breaking.
You speak too much when you are angry.
She files that away.
“You talk beautifully when offended,” she observes quietly.
Your jaw tightens. “Do not patronize me.”
“You think this is patronizing?” she asks, almost thoughtful.
She steps closer again, but this time she does not touch you. The distance between you narrows to inches — enough that you feel the heat of her breath, the steadiness of her posture.
“You believe you can insult me,” she says, voice lowering, “and nothing will follow.”
You lift your chin defiantly. “I would never marry you. I would never align my kingdom with yours. Your attempts at courtship are grotesque, and your empire is nothing more than a parasite devouring everything it touches.”
There it is. Something shifts.
It is subtle, but unmistakable.
Her amusement dims.
The air grows heavier.
You see it then — the reminder of who she is, stripped of flirtation and almost-playfulness. The woman who commands legions. The architect of sieges. The one whose name makes lesser rulers negotiate before she even speaks.
“You misunderstand something,” Ambessa says. Her tone is no longer warm.
It is calm. Measured. Dangerous.
“You speak as though this is a debate between equals.”
Your breath falters.
“I could remove your kingdom from the map,” she continues evenly. “Not because I need to. Not because I must. Simply because I decide it serves me.”
Your pulse begins to hammer.
“Itaúna survives because it is useful,” she adds. “Because it has something I want.”
Her gaze drifts over you again. “And because you are… interesting.”
You swallow hard.
“You are not my equal in this hierarchy,” she says quietly. “You are not a rival power. You are a variable.”
The words hit harder than the kiss did.
“I am not nothing,” you hiss.
“No,” she agrees. “You are not nothing.”
She steps even closer — close enough that your back presses against the table once more.
“You are prey,” she says softly. “And a wolf does not abandon a hunt simply because the hare stamps its foot.”
Cold floods your veins.
Your voice shakes now — not with anger, but with something far more primal. “You cannot threaten me in my own castle.”
“I am not threatening you,” she replies.
Her eyes hold yours.
“If I wished to do more than kiss you, who would stop me?”
The question is quiet.
Almost curious.
"If I decided that I wanted to rape you? Hm? Or that suddenly your place will be in Noxus, who would stop me, princess?"
She doesn't expect an answer.
“Your guards?” she continues. “Your father? Would they risk Noxus for your pride? For your honor?”
Your mind races. The corridors. The soldiers stationed outside. The alliances. The trade routes.
You do not answer.
She studies your silence carefully.
“I will not force you,” she says at last — “But do not mistake restraint for weakness.”
Her hand lifts — not to grab, not to restrain — but to brush a single knuckle along your jaw where your pulse flutters wildly beneath your skin. “You are making this far more difficult than it needs to be.”
And for the first time since she entered your life, fear takes root beneath your anger.
Not because she touched you.
Not because she kissed you.
But because you understand now — with chilling clarity — that she could do anything.
And no one in this castle would stop her.
The realization settles into your bones like frost.
The library of Itaúna is a sanctuary built of discipline.
Stone arches rise overhead, their curves softened by centuries of candle smoke and careful preservation. Tall windows admit pale morning light, diffused through sheer drapery that keeps the sun from damaging parchment and ink. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, heavy with volumes bound in leather and linen, their spines marked by the hands of scholars, monarchs, and administrators long dead.
You sit at the center of it all.
A broad oak table dominates the space, its surface nearly obscured by open books, loose scrolls, annotated ledgers, and maps weighed down by polished stones. Your posture is straight but not rigid, one hand resting near a quill, the other supporting your chin as your eyes trace a passage written by a king who ruled three generations before your grandfather.
Two of your ladies-in-waiting stand behind you, silent and attentive, waiting for instruction. Three others sit at nearby tables, reading, cross-referencing, murmuring softly to one another as they work. In Itaúna, literacy is not a luxury reserved for the elite. Within the royal court, it is an expectation. Servants, aides, ladies-in-waiting — all are educated, trained to read not only words, but intent.
You insist upon it.
You trust knowledge far more than you trust councils.
Your gaze moves from one text to another, comparing accounts of failed and successful mining expansions. Deeper veins mean richer yield — you know this — but also greater risk, higher cost, slower return. The stone grows temperamental the farther one descends. Flooding, collapses, poisoned air. Kings before you chased abundance without patience and paid for it in lives and debt.
“There has to be a way,” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
Your mind is sharp this morning, but fractured. It keeps slipping — not away from duty, but sideways. Toward everything pressing in on you from beyond these walls.
The council. The throne. Your family.
And, unbidden, her.
You do not linger on the name. You do not want to give it more space than it has already taken. Still, the thought returns with the same unpleasant persistence as a bruise pressed too often.
Ambessa Medarda.
The letters.
The attention.
The certainty behind it all.
You tighten your jaw, forcing your focus back to the page. Around you, the quiet of the library continues, the faint scratch of quills and the rustle of paper forming a rhythm meant to soothe.
It does not.
Whispers move through the court like wind through tall grass. You know this. They always have. But lately, they carry a sharper edge. Doubts about your succession. Questions about loyalty. Murmurs that certain branches of your father’s family are… dissatisfied. That your mother bore only one son. That a woman on the throne unsettles old expectations. That dissatisfaction breeds ambition.
You exhale slowly, steadying yourself.
A knock breaks the silence.
It is firm. Measured. Official.
You lift your head. “Enter.”
The doors open, and a messenger steps inside, bowing deeply before approaching the table. He carries a sealed letter in one hand — and a small, finely crafted box in the other.
“Your Highness,” he says, voice respectful but tight. “I was instructed to deliver this directly into your care.”
Your stomach sinks. You do not need him to say the name.
“From General Ambessa Medarda.”
For a heartbeat, the library feels too exposed. Too open. As if every wall has leaned closer to listen. Your expression remains composed, but something sharp twists behind your ribs. Disgust flares — hot, immediate — before you swallow it down. You incline your head slightly, granting permission without enthusiasm. One of your ladies-in-waiting steps forward at your silent gesture, accepting the items with careful hands.
“Take it to my chambers,” you say evenly.
The messenger bows again and withdraws. The box disappears from sight, but its weight does not leave you.
First a letter. Now a gift.
You press your fingers against the edge of the table, grounding yourself.
So this is how she intends to play it.
Courtship.
The word makes your stomach hollow.
You are being courted — openly, deliberately — by a woman who conquers cities and calls it order. You imagine Ambessa continuing this slow advance, gesture by gesture, until you are forced to answer. Until silence itself becomes an answer she refuses to accept. You will not give her that satisfaction.
Still, the unease grows.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of ink and stone, your focus splintered despite your efforts. The books no longer settle your thoughts. The strategies feel distant. Every quiet moment invites the same intrusive awareness.
You think, not for the first time, that it will not be long before she stops sending words and starts arriving in person.
And that thought follows you long after you leave the library.
For nearly three months, Ambessa Medarda does not let you forget her.
Every morning, without fail, something arrives.
Sometimes it is a letter — thick parchment, heavy wax, handwriting controlled and precise, as if even her words refuse to rush. Other days it is a gift: dresses folded in silk, shoes shaped to fit a body she has never touched, jewelry cut from stones conquered rather than mined. Once, there is even a ceremonial weapon, ornate and unnecessary, its presence a provocation disguised as reverence. You never open the letters.
Not once.
They are handed over to be fed to the fire, untouched, seals unbroken, redistributed with a cold efficiency that becomes ritual. The dresses go to your sisters, who laugh and spin and pretend this is all a harmless spectacle. The shoes are given to attendants whose disbelief borders on worship. Jewelry disappears into servants’ families, into dowries, into futures Ambessa will never bother to acknowledge. You refuse to let her claim you or even think she can.
If she insists on occupying space in your life, you will dissolve that space until nothing remains.
Still, the weight of it is unavoidable.
The court notices. How could they not? Ambessa Medarda courting the heir of Itaúna is not subtle; it is a declaration. Whispers thicken in corridors. Glances linger. Every refusal becomes public, every redistribution a quiet insult that unsettles nobles far more than open defiance ever could. You endure it by working harder.
You bury yourself in the mines, in ledgers, in forgotten strategies meant to tame stone that resists the hand. You search for ways to make deeper extraction profitable without sacrificing lives — older kings’ failures spread before you like warnings written in blood. Days blur into one another. Your focus sharpens even as your patience erodes.
And then, one morning, nothing comes.
No knock.
No messenger.
No sealed parchment waiting to test your restraint.
You tell yourself it is nothing.
The second day passes the same way.
Then the third.
By the fifth, the absence is louder than the gifts ever were.
It irritates you — not because you miss them, but because you notice their absence at all. You catch yourself listening for footsteps that do not arrive, glancing toward doors you have trained yourself to ignore. You resent the way the silence worms into your thoughts, how it unsettles you more than the daily provocation ever did.
By the sixth day, you are almost convinced it is over.
Almost.
The late afternoon light casts the corridors in gold as you leave the library, Miryan at your side. You are exhausted — ink-stained fingers, stiff shoulders, a mind still tangled in numbers and stone. When Miryan speaks, her tone is casual, but her eyes are watchful. “She stopped.”
You keep walking. “For now.”
Miryan exhales softly. “Six days without anything. That’s the longest stretch yet.”
“It means nothing,” you say sharply. “If anything, it means she’s planning something worse.”
Miryan gives a small, uneasy laugh. “You really think she’d go to all this trouble just to… unsettle you?”
You stop, turning on her fully now, irritation bleeding through the cracks of your composure. “This isn’t courtship,” you say. “This is dominance dressed in silk. I despise every part of it — the gifts, the letters, the assumption that persistence will erode my refusal.”
Miryan studies you, quieter now. “You hate her.”
“I hate what she represents,” you correct. “War. Expansion. The idea that taking is the same as deserving. Noxus spreads like a parasite, draining everything it touches until there is nothing left but conquest choking on its own excess.”
When you reach your chambers, you are already tense, prepared for nothing — and for everything.
The guards open the doors.
You step inside.
And the breath leaves you.
Boxes fill the room.
Not stacked carelessly, but placed with intention, arranged as if someone had taken the time to decide exactly where each should sit. Crates line the walls. Smaller cases rest near your bed, beside your vanity, on your chairs, atop familiar rugs, everything rendered by their presence. Letters sit neatly atop several packages, seals intact, waiting.
For a heartbeat, you cannot move.
Then heat floods your chest — sharp, humiliating, furious.
This is not persistence.
This is humiliation.
You feel it in the way the room no longer feels like yours, in the way the silence of the last six days now reveals itself for what it was: not restraint, but calculation. You taste the bitterness of it, the anger you have spent months swallowing clawing its way toward the surface.
Your expression remains composed. Your eyes do not.
Hatred flashes there, bright and unmistakable. You turn away from the gifts almost immediately.
“Burn them,” you say coldly, voice cutting through the room like steel.
The guards stiffen. “Your Highness?”
“All of it,” you repeat. “The boxes. The letters. Every single thing. That is an order from your princess.”
You turn to your ladies-in-waiting next. “Find my father. Now. Tell him I want a meeting — immediately.”
They move at once. As the door closes behind them, you stand alone in the wreckage of Ambessa Medarda’s insistence, jaw tight, hands clenched at your sides.
You will not read her words.
You will not accept her offerings.
And you will not allow this to continue unchecked.
If she insists on turning this into a political act—
Stone walls rise high and severe, carved with reliefs of victories long past — crowns lifted, enemies kneeling, rivers claimed by ink and blade alike. Sunlight filters through the narrow windows in thin, disciplined beams, illuminating the long table at the center of the room where maps are spread open like exposed organs.
You sit at your father’s right hand. It is where you belong.
It is where you have been trained to sit since you were old enough to understand that proximity to power is both privilege and sentence.
Voices overlap in measured cadence.
“…the western route will need reinforcement—”
“…if extraction increases by even five percent—”
“…Piltover’s demand is growing faster than anticipated—”
You take notes with elegant precision. Your handwriting is neat, controlled, unmistakably royal. You nod when required. You lift your gaze at the correct moments. You speak once — briefly — to clarify a detail about transport tariffs, your voice calm, your tone deferential but firm.
The council listens. They always do. And yet, your mind is not here.
It drifts — insistently, relentlessly — back to the same sensation that has plagued you since the few nights before. A tightening beneath your ribs. A low, crawling awareness that something has shifted beyond the visible structures of law and diplomacy.
You feel it like a pressure change before a storm.
Ambessa Medarda.
The name does not arrive with heat or longing. It comes with weight.
You think of her gaze — not the way it looked, but the way it felt. Like a hand closing around the back of your neck without ever touching skin. Like being measured not for worth, but for inevitability.
You are not imagining it.
Your instincts, honed by generations of women who learned to survive courts before forests, recognize the pattern immediately.
The wolf has already chosen the clearing.
You picture it vividly, unbidden.
A forest dense and shadowed. The predator does not run. It does not bare its teeth. It watches. Learns the rhythm of the prey’s breathing. Notes the moment when awareness flickers — when the hare pauses, ears twitching, sensing danger without yet understanding it.
The hunt is not the chase. The hunt is the waiting.
Your fingers tighten around the quill.
You are the hare.
You know this with a clarity that borders on terror. Not because you are weak — but because you have been raised to be visible, predictable, contained. Every rule you live by sharpens the wolf’s advantage.
Ambessa is not advancing.
She is allowing you to circle.
“—and new machinery will allow us to increase yield without compromising structural integrity, particularly, it will be even easier due to our princess efforts.”
Your father’s voice cuts through the fog, grounding and steady. He straightens slightly, turning his attention to the council as a whole.
“My daughter secured the coastal agreement a few nights before, in the New Year Ball in Piltover,” he says, pride unmistakable now. “Full access to the river routes. No tariffs for the first three years.”
A ripple of reaction passes through the room.
Surprise. Approval. Calculation.
“She negotiated personally,” your father continues. “And she succeeded. I have complete confidence that she will bring lasting glory to this kingdom — and to our house.”
For a moment, the weight lifts.
You straighten instinctively, schooling your expression into composed humility. “I only fulfilled my duty,” you say, voice even.
Several councilors nod. One smiles thinly, already measuring how your success might be leveraged against you later. Another’s gaze lingers, thoughtful, assessing you not as heir — but as obstacle.
You feel it.
The praise sharpens as much as it warms.
When the meeting finally adjourns, your shoulders ache with tension you have not allowed yourself to acknowledge. As you rise, gathering your papers, the unease returns in full force — heavier now, closer.
The wolf is still there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And you know — with a certainty that settles deep in your bones — that this was never about one conversation, one night, or one refusal.
This is the moment just before the chase begins.
Your chambers are quiet in the way only royal rooms ever are.
Not empty — controlled.
The door closes behind you with a muted sound, thick wood sealing you away from council chambers, corridors, guards, expectations. The air smells faintly of lavender and smoke from the hearth, carefully tended to keep the chill away without inviting disorder. Blue tapestries hang along the stone walls, edged in white and threaded with gold — the colors of Itaúna watching you as closely as any court ever has.
You loosen your shoulders the moment you are alone. Just slightly. Not enough to be improper.
It takes you a few seconds to notice that you are not, in fact, alone.
“Did they finally let you breathe?”
The voice comes from your bed.
You turn, surprise flickering briefly across your features before softening into something warmer. Your younger sister, Alanys, lies sprawled atop the covers, her curls fanned messily against the pillows, one leg bent at the knee, a thick book resting open against her chest. She looks entirely too comfortable for someone who snuck into the future queen’s chambers without announcement.
“You’ll crease the linens,” you say automatically.
She grins. “That’s the point.”
You cross the room and sit at the edge of the bed, the tension in your spine easing despite yourself. “How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to hear the guards arguing about whether Noxus would bother with formalities,” she replies. Then, quieter: “Long enough to know you’re pretending you aren’t afraid.”
You still.
Alanys has always been too perceptive for her age.
“I’m not afraid,” you say after a moment.
She studies you over the edge of her book. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
You sigh softly, pressing your palms against the mattress. “I’m… unsettled.”
“That’s worse,” she says matter-of-factly. “Fear passes. Unsettled stays.”
She closes the book and sits up, folding her legs beneath her. Her expression shifts — less playful now, more deliberate. “You should send a letter.”
Your stomach tightens. “To whom?”
“To Virellan,” Alanys says. “To your betrothed. Or at least to his court. People are talking.”
You look away.
She continues, relentless but not unkind. “They say the council is divided. Some of them think Father should name Kronos heir instead. He’s married. His wife is already with child. It would be… easier.”
Easier.
The word lands like a bruise.
“Easier for whom?” you ask quietly.
“For them,” Alanys replies. “Not for us.”
You turn back to her, searching her face. “And what do you think?”
She hesitates — a rare thing.
“I think they’re afraid of you,” she admits. “Of what you represent. A woman on the throne. Unmarried. Unsoftened.”
Her fingers twist in the fabric of her sleeve. “And I think they’d rather trade you away than watch you rule.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Before you can respond, the doors open without ceremony.
Miryan enters like she owns the space — because, in many ways, she does. She carries a folded letter in one hand, its seal unbroken, and drops into the settee by the window with exaggerated ease.
“Well,” she says, examining the wax. “This is new.”
Your heart stutters.
Alanys slides off the bed immediately. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she says, suddenly all innocence. “I’ll—”
“Stay,” Miryan says lightly. “This concerns us all.”
She looks up at you, eyes sharp with something like amusement. “Seems you’ve caught the attention of a general.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“Ambessa Medarda,” Miryan continues, smirking. “A personal letter. I’d be flattered.”
You manage a polite smile through the pressure building behind your ribs. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Miryan laughs softly. “Don’t insult us. She doesn’t write letters for nothing.”
She leans back. “Honestly? I’d take her over that pathetic betrothed of yours any day.”
Alanys’ eyes widen.
You reach out, take the letter from Miryan’s hand, and place it carefully on your vanity. “Thank you,” you say evenly. “That will be all.”
Miryan studies you for a moment longer, then rises, shepherding Alanys toward the door with a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Try not to burn it,” she adds dryly. You simply watch as the door closes behind them, letting out a breath you didn't notice you were holding.
Night falls slowly.
Later, the room is yours alone.
The letter waits where you left it, its presence oppressive. You do not open it. You already know what it contains — not words, but intent.
You rise, cross the room, and feed the parchment into the fire.
The wax melts. The paper curls. The seal blackens and disappears.
The chambers prepared for you are washed in the colors of your kingdom.
Blue first — deep, royal, heavy with meaning. White in silk and stone. Gold only in careful accents, never excessive, never indulgent. Power in Itaúna has always been restrained, worn like a discipline rather than a celebration.
Servants move around you with quiet efficiency, adjusting the fall of your gown, smoothing invisible wrinkles, fastening jewelry chosen more for symbolism than beauty. The mirror reflects a woman already shaped by expectation: tall, dark-skinned, her posture trained into composure, her white hair braided and pinned with golden clasps etched in patterns inspired by old river glyphs.
You look like a queen-in-waiting.
You feel like something far less stable.
Your stomach twists as one of the maids tightens the bodice just enough to remind you that your body is never entirely your own. Anxiety sits beneath your ribs, sharp and familiar, pressing insistently. You think of the banquet tables waiting below — of roasted meats, sugared fruits, spiced wines — and feel the sudden, overwhelming urge to eat.
To ground yourself.
To punish yourself.
To disappear into sensation.
Instead, you pull your hands together and breathe slowly.
You remember the words of a princess from a neighboring court, spoken weeks ago with a smile too sharp to be friendly.
Your face looks fuller these days.
The memory makes your throat tighten.
You do not indulge the hunger.
You do not indulge the shame.
You endure.
Behind you, a low laugh breaks the tension.
Your sister lounges on a cushioned settee near the window, one leg folded beneath her, the other dangling carelessly. She wears blue as well, but lighter — less burdened by gold, less weighed down by expectation. Her expression is knowing, eyes sharp as she watches you spiral inward.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” she says.
You turn slightly, offering a small smile. “I’m not thinking at all.”
She snorts. “That’s worse.”
She rises and approaches, adjusting a loose strand of your white hair with a tenderness she never shows in public. “You look beautiful,” she adds, more softly. “Terrifyingly so. Like someone who could ruin a man’s life without raising her voice.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It should be.”
She studies you for a moment, then sighs. “You’re thinking about the agreement, aren’t you? The river trade.”
You nod.
Your mother had told you only days ago — quietly, almost casually — that your father intended to let you speak for the house. That he trusted you to secure maritime access through a neighboring kingdom’s rivers, an agreement that could reshape Itaúna’s economy for generations.
The weight of that trust presses harder than the bodice ever could.
“I don’t want to fail him,” you admit.
“You won’t,” your sister says immediately. “You’re terrifyingly competent. You just forget that when people look at you like you’re… something to be evaluated.”
You huff a breath. “That’s because I am.”
She tilts her head. “Maybe. But you’re also my sister. And tonight, you’re not alone.”
The doors open shortly after.
The music reaches you first.
The ballroom breathes like a living thing.
Music coils through the air, carried by strings and soft percussion, swelling and receding as conversations overlap. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across polished stone, turning every movement into spectacle. Nobles drift in careful orbits, drawn together by convenience, pulled apart by rivalry.
Peace is being performed.
You move through it as expected.
Blue, white, and gold trail behind you like a banner, unmistakable. People bow. Some too deeply. Others not enough. You exchange practiced pleasantries, listen to assurances that mean nothing, nod at promises that will dissolve the moment Noxus applies pressure.
You smile when required.
You speak when spoken to.
You reveal nothing.
Still, unease coils beneath your composure.
It begins as a sensation — subtle, almost imagined. A tightening between your shoulders. A pressure at the base of your skull. The instinctive awareness of being seen.
Not admired.
Not evaluated.
Hunted.
You dismiss it at first. Paranoia born of stress, of too many eyes and too much responsibility. But the feeling does not fade. It sharpens.
Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, scanning faces without appearing to. Kings lean toward queens. Generals cluster near the edges. Chem-barons laugh too loudly. You catalog them automatically.
And then your eyes lock with hers.
The moment stretches unnaturally.
Ambessa Medarda stands near one of the marble columns, half-shadowed, her presence distorting the space around her. Even out of armor, she is unmistakable — broad-shouldered, grounded, carved from a different philosophy than silk and diplomacy. Those around her keep a respectful distance without quite realizing why.
Her gaze does not flicker.
It does not roam.
It pins you.
Your breath catches sharply enough that you have to still yourself. Heat spreads through your chest, unpleasant and disorienting. You tear your eyes away first, pulse thundering in your ears.
Of course it’s her.
Everyone knows Ambessa Medarda. Even those who have never seen her face know her shape — conquest given patience, inevitability wrapped in flesh.
You turn slightly, repositioning yourself among a group of nobles discussing trade tariffs. Their words blur together as your attention fractures, every sense attuned to the possibility of movement at your back.
You laugh at the appropriate moment.
You nod at the appropriate time.
You do not relax.
Minutes pass. Then more.
You change direction when you sense her approaching. Slip behind a cluster of diplomats. Linger too long with a duchess whose perfume makes your head ache. You pretend fascination with the musicians, the tapestries, the architecture.
Still, she advances.
Not hurried.
Not aggressive.
Certain.
A queen from a coastal empire leans toward you, voice lowered conspiratorially. “You look pale, Your Highness. Are you unwell?”
You summon a smile. “Merely overwhelmed by such generous hospitality.”
She chuckles. “You’ll grow used to it. Power always demands a tax.”
You think of Ambessa’s eyes.
You think of how they felt like hands.
Eventually, the strain becomes too much.
You drift toward one of the side tables, intent on grounding yourself with a sip of wine — just enough to steady your nerves, not enough to invite commentary. Your fingers brush the stem of a glass.
They never close around it.
A hand intercepts yours — large, unyielding, stopping you with effortless precision.
“I wouldn’t,” a low voice says beside you.
You freeze.
Every instinct screams, but you keep your posture immaculate as you turn slowly.
Ambessa Medarda stands close enough that you can feel the heat of her body, the weight of her presence. Her expression is calm, almost thoughtful, eyes dark and intent.
“It wouldn’t do for a princess to be seen indulging,” she continues mildly.
“I wasn’t aware Piltover regulated its guests’ behavior so strictly,” you reply coolly, withdrawing your hand.
Her mouth curves — not quite a smile. “Piltover doesn’t. I do.”
The audacity makes your spine stiffen.
“I’m capable of making my own decisions,” you say evenly.
She inclines her head slightly, as if acknowledging a competent opponent. “I’m sure you believe that.”
Anger flares — sharp, unwelcome.
You straighten. “Excuse me.”
“Of course.” She steps aside with deliberate slowness, granting you space while somehow still enclosing it. “I would hate to inconvenience you.”
You move away, heart racing.
For a while, you think that’s the end of it.
It isn’t.
She finds you again near the musicians, commenting idly on the quality of the instruments. Later, near the balcony, she remarks on the river trade routes as if testing your reaction. Each time, her words are polite. Inoffensive.
Strategic.
She never touches you again. She doesn’t need to.
Every interaction is brief, controlled, charged. She speaks as if you are already in conversation, as if proximity alone is permission. You give her nothing — curt responses, deflections, the bare minimum of courtesy.
The rejection sharpens her focus.
You see it in the way her gaze lingers longer. In the way she adjusts her approach, circling rather than advancing directly. This is no longer idle interest.
This is pursuit.
Finally, as the music swells and the crowd grows denser, you gather your composure and prepare your escape.
“I must assist my father,” you say firmly, meeting her gaze head-on. “He’s expecting me.”
For the first time, something shifts in her expression.
Approval? Amusement?
She steps back, granting you a clear path.
“As you wish,” Ambessa says, voice smooth. “Duty is a powerful thing.”
You incline your head stiffly and turn away.
You do not look back.
You walk through the crowd with measured steps, shoulders squared, pulse still racing. You tell yourself the encounter is over — that this was nothing more than political posturing, an intimidation tactic easily survived.
But as you move farther from her, the sensation intensifies.
You feel her eyes on your back.
Heavy.
Penetrating.
Unrelenting.
They follow you through the crowd, through the laughter and light and false peace, branding themselves into your awareness.
And beneath your fear — beneath your fury — something colder settles.
being honest, I WAS CRAVING for a new Ambessa's ff, and since the one I was obsessed with ended (cries in The Wolf's Bride fan) I felt that I needed to write one. So, this one is HEAVILY inspired by The Wolf's Bride.
https://share.google/IqLhPjyAD3xQIenn8 ☆ go read it.
thanks @e1e4n0r5 for providing us with your godly writing.
observation: I didn't give Y/N-reader a name, but while writing I kinda of based her in myself so she is black woman, I kept the Targaryen thing [im kinda of obsessed with GOT too], but like, just the white hair. And kept the Got inspiring and used the Houses thing to create some conflict.
TW: Slightly mentions of e.d., misogyny(?)
: ・꣑୧・┈・┈・꣑୧・┈・┈・꣑୧・: ・꣑୧・┈・┈・꣑୧・┈・┈ :
— Piltover was meant to be neutral ground.
A city of glass, diplomacy, and fragile peace.
You arrived as a princess — raised to be flawless, obedient, untouched. A living jewel from a kingdom carved out of stone and tradition.
You left as something else entirely.
As Noxus burns its way through alliances and borders, you find yourself caught between crowns and conquest, desire and domination. Taken not because you are weak — but because you are valuable.
This is a story about power. About obsession disguised as protection.
About a woman who conquers empires — and the princess she decides to keep.
From a distance, the city appears unreal — a constellation pinned to stone, its towers slicing through cloudbanks as if the sky itself were negotiable. Light fractures against glass bridges suspended in impossible arcs, refracted through hex-crystals embedded into marble spines. Everything gleams. Everything reflects. Everything watches.
You have seen great cities before. Capitals crowned with banners and history. Strongholds carved from mountains. Courts built to intimidate gods.
Piltover does something worse.
It convinces you that it is inevitable.
Your transport glides into the airspace with ceremonial slowness, escorted by sleek Piltover craft whose hulls shine too cleanly to be honest. The hum of their engines vibrates through your bones, low and constant, a reminder that even arrival here is choreographed.
You stand at the observation window, hands folded properly at your waist, fingers hidden within long white sleeves embroidered with silver thread. The fabric is light, chosen deliberately — not for warmth, but for symbolism. Pale. Untainted. Valuable.
A princess does not press her face to the glass.
A princess does not marvel.
A princess does not reveal unease.
Still, your breath catches when the city finally fills your vision.
Behind you, the room breathes quietly with controlled life. Servants move like trained shadows, adjusting hems, checking fastenings, whispering updates in soft, efficient tones. The air smells faintly of incense and metal — Piltover’s idea of refinement.
Your mother sits near the window, her posture flawless despite the journey. She wears her crown even in private, a circlet of dark metal set with a single stone taken from the deepest mine of your homeland. It is not ostentatious. It does not need to be.
Your father stands beside a low table scattered with documents and sigils, already in quiet discussion with Piltover envoys. Numbers pass between them like knives beneath silk. Trade quantities. Extraction limits. “Mutual benefit.”
You know the language.
You were raised in it.
Your kingdom does not trade in grain or steel.
It trades in the bones of the earth.
Jewels born under pressure so immense that the stone remembers it forever. Crystals that drink light and fracture it into obedient color. Gems Piltover uses in its technologies, its ornaments, its illusions of progress.
Your house grew rich by knowing where to dig.
You grew important by being born where you were.
A living extension of the mines.
A symbol polished until nothing of the child beneath remained.
You feel Piltover before you hear it — a pressure behind the eyes, a subtle awareness that this city is not merely a place but a system. It categorizes. It assigns value. It remembers.
Your mother’s voice breaks the silence, low and measured.
“Piltover is a mouth,” she says, eyes still fixed on the skyline. “It smiles while it decides how best to swallow.”
Your father hums softly in agreement, fingers resting on a document stamped with your family’s seal.
They did not bring you here for spectacle.
They brought you here because the map has begun to bleed.
Noxus presses outward like a blade dragged slowly across silk. Borders collapse not in fire, but in quiet concessions. Trade routes go silent. Cities wake beneath banners they never agreed to host.
And at the center of that expansion stands a woman whose name is spoken carefully, even in rooms with locked doors.
Ambessa Medarda.
You have heard the stories. Everyone has. Not the embellished songs — the practical ones. The way her campaigns end before they begin. The way cities open their gates without siege, because resistance has already been calculated and found inefficient.
She does not conquer in chaos.
She conquers with certainty.
You shift your weight slightly, then still yourself.
Your mother notices everything.
She rises and approaches you, her expression softening only once the servants are far enough not to hear. She adjusts the fall of your sleeve, fingers lingering longer than necessary at your wrist.
“You are not prey,” she whispers.
But her hands tremble — just barely.
Servants return moments later to announce the evening’s schedule. A diplomatic reception. A procession. A ball held in honor of “unity and cooperation.” The words taste false even before they are spoken aloud.
You allow yourself to be guided toward the dressing chamber.
White silk is replaced with something heavier. Still pale, but threaded now with deeper silver, patterns winding along your ribs and spine like veins of ore beneath stone. Tiny gems are braided into your hair — not for beauty, but for statement. Proof of origin. Proof of worth.
Your throat remains bare.
Vulnerability disguised as tradition.
As they dress you, you think of your kingdom — of halls carved from black rock, of heat and darkness and pressure. Of rules older than any empire. Of expectations that wrapped around your spine long before you could walk.
You were raised to endure.
To be quiet when needed.
Sharp when required.
Still when watched.
The mirror reflects a woman composed of obedience and value, crown light upon her head and heavy in meaning.
Somewhere beyond Piltover’s walls, banners are moving.
Somewhere, decisions have already been made.
And tonight, you will step into a room full of people who believe they are choosing their future — unaware that it has already chosen them.
𓂃۶ৎ
You descend the main staircase slowly, as you were taught.
Your father’s hand holds yours on one side, steady and warm, while your mother’s rests on your other arm — light, precise, guiding without ever appearing to guide. The staircase itself is an act of intimidation: white stone carved into soft, impossible curves, crystals embedded along the banister catching light and scattering it over the assembled guests below.
Hundreds of eyes lift at once.
You do not look down at them.
You keep your gaze forward, chin level, shoulders back, every movement rehearsed since childhood. Grace is not something you have. It is something demanded of you — relentlessly, unforgivingly.
Your reflection follows you in the polished stone: tall, pale, almost ethereal beneath the lights. Your skin is untouched by sun or labor, kept that way by design. Your face is sharp in the way of old bloodlines — Your hair, white as ash or snow, falls in careful waves down your back, braided only at the temples with fine silver thread.
A legacy born of conflict.
Your ancestors earned their coloring through war and fire and marriages arranged at swordpoint. You inherited the aesthetic without the freedom that once accompanied it.
You are beautiful because you must be.
Your body is another matter.
You feel it before you see it — the way some gazes linger too long, measuring softness, angles, imagined imperfections. Your gown is cut to flatter and conceal in equal measure, fabric flowing over your hips and waist, corseted gently enough to breathe but firmly enough to remind you that excess is unacceptable.
You hate the way your body feels tonight.
Too solid. Too present.
Your mother’s grip tightens, just barely, as if she senses the spiral beginning.
“Breathe,” your father murmurs, leaning closer as the orchestra swells. His voice is low, meant only for you. “This is only a night. Nothing more.”
You nod once.
Only a night.
Only hundreds of eyes.
Only your future weighed and judged in silence.
As you reach the base of the stairs, conversation resumes — softer now, respectful, careful. Nobles bow. Ambassadors incline their heads. A duchess in emerald silk smiles too brightly, eyes already cataloging you like inventory.
“Your Highness,” she says, voice dripping honey. “You are even more exquisite than the reports suggested.”
You return the smile effortlessly.
“Piltover flatters all its guests,” you reply, tone light, controlled. Perfect.
Nearby, a general from a southern coalition laughs into his glass. “With stones like yours, who wouldn’t?” His gaze flickers briefly to your waist, then away. “Your kingdom must eat well.”
The comment lands like a bruise.
Your throat tightens.
You feel heat rise — shame, anger, the old familiar urge to disappear or overcompensate. Your relationship with food has never been simple. Stress coils your appetite into knots or floods it without warning. Tonight, the tables are heavy with delicacies you know you will barely touch — not because you don’t want them, but because wanting is dangerous.
You swallow.
You smile.
“My people are generous,” you say evenly. “We believe abundance should be shared.”
Your father squeezes your hand, proud and apologetic all at once.
As the evening unfolds, you move as expected — greeting royalty, speaking softly of trade routes and gemstone yields, listening more than you speak. Wine flows. Music hums. Laughter rises and falls like a practiced tide.
You feel strangely detached from it all, as though the room exists behind glass.
There is a sensation you cannot name — not fear, not anticipation, but something closer to imbalance. As if the ground beneath Piltover has already shifted, and everyone else is simply too distracted to notice.
You catch fragments of conversation as you pass.
“…Noxus has been unusually quiet—”
“…Medarda influence is spreading faster than expected—”
“…surely Piltover wouldn’t allow—”
Your mother’s expression tightens whenever the name is spoken.
Later, as you pause near a pillar to steady yourself, your father leans in again.
“We’ll find her,” he says softly. “Mel Medarda. If anyone can temper Noxian aggression, it will be her. We’ll speak privately before the night ends.”
You nod, grateful for the promise even as doubt curls in your chest.
Hope feels fragile tonight.
The ball continues. Glasses clink. Dresses swirl. Power performs itself beautifully.
And then—
A sound cuts through the music.
Low. Distant. Wrong.
The orchestra falters.
Another sound follows — sharper now, unmistakable.
Sirens.
Hextech alarms ignite along the walls, bathing the hall in flashing red and gold. Conversations collapse into screams. Glass shatters somewhere above.
A voice booms through the chamber:
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL.”
Your father’s hand tightens painfully around yours.
Your mother turns pale.
And as Piltover’s defenses scream their warning to the sky, one truth crashes through the illusion of safety:
