I. The Fitting***
The first time Ambessa touches her, it is not a mother’s touch.
Mel tells herself it is. That it’s normal—the way her mother stands behind her, adjusting the intricate golden collar resting against her throat. That it means nothing when Ambessa’s fingers brush her bare shoulders, slow and deliberate, tracing the embroidered patterns of the dress Mel is being fitted into.
"A Medarda must always look the part," Ambessa murmurs, her breath warm against Mel’s ear.
Mel keeps her chin high, staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror before her. She is resplendent—golden. A creation of silk and power, draped in her family’s legacy.
Ambessa’s hands smooth down her arms, a silent appraisal. Then—lower. Fingertips ghosting the curve of her waist, adjusting the fabric with a measured patience that makes Mel’s stomach clench.
"You’ve grown into your features," Ambessa muses.
Mel’s breath is slow. Even. "I take after you."
Ambessa hums in agreement. "Yes. But you still carry traces of your father." Her hands still against Mel’s waist, grip tightening just slightly. "A shame."
Mel swallows. The air in the room is warm, but her skin prickles as if cold.
Ambessa meets her gaze in the mirror, tilting her head slightly. "Still, you wear my name well."
It is praise.
A rare, coveted thing.
And despite the quiet horror curling in her gut, Mel basks in it.
---
II. The Dance***
The ballroom is filled with Piltover’s elite, but Mel sees only her mother.
Ambessa is a force in the room, draped in red and gold, standing taller than every man present. She moves with effortless command, a predator among prey. And she is watching Mel.
Mel knows what she is meant to do. She has played this role a thousand times before. She is poised, graceful, the perfect Medarda heir. But when Ambessa extends a hand—a silent command—Mel hesitates for the first time.
A dance.
A mother guiding her daughter across the ballroom floor.
It should be nothing.
It should mean nothing.
But Ambessa’s hand is heavy against the small of Mel’s back, fingers pressing firmly through the silk. When they move, it is not with the careful, practiced grace of a waltz—it is a lesson in control. Ambessa leads. Mel follows.
"Too slow," Ambessa murmers, lips barely moving. "You anticipate, but you do not trust the lead."
Mel exhales through her nose. "I prefer to control my own steps."
Ambessa’s grip tightens. "Not here. Not with me."
It is humiliating, the way she is made to bend. How Ambessa maneuvers her effortlessly, correcting each misstep with quiet force.
But worse than the humiliation—worse than the shame—is the satisfaction curling in Mel’s chest when her mother finally hums in approval.
"Better," Ambessa says, her voice low. "Now do it again."
---
III. The Gift***
When the night ends, there is a box waiting in Mel’s quarters.
Inside, she finds a necklace.
Gold. Heavy. The chain thick, the pendant deliberate.
A lion’s head.
It is not Piltover’s delicate filigree. Not the kind of ornament worn by scholars and council members. This is something else—something from home.
Mel stares at it for a long time, fingers tracing the sharp lines of the lion’s mane.
The message is clear.
She is Medarda.
She is of Ambessa.
And no matter how far she runs, no matter how high she climbs, she will always belong to her mother.