the art of war and desire

Mel returns to her quarters, the soft click of the door shutting behind her echoing in the quiet space. The shawl draped over her shoulders feels heavy now, an unwanted weight she shrugs off with a sigh. She tosses it over the back of a chair, her movements precise but tense, as if peeling away layers of irritation that have clung to her since her conversation with Sevika.

Her refusal had been unexpected, but not in the way Mel usually encounters surprises. It wasn’t born of indecision or polite deflection. It was firm, deliberate—a rejection laced with quiet defiance that still needles at her. 

Mel crosses to the sideboard, pouring herself a drink with practiced ease, the rhythmic swirl of the sweet liquid a familiar ritual. She takes a slow sip, her brow furrowing as she leans against the desk, staring into the darkened room.

She hadn’t miscalculated; the offer had been sound. Practical, even. A chance to help Sevika integrate better into the council, to find her footing among them. But Sevika hadn’t been moved. She’d seen through the offer for what it was: another way to bend her to someone’s will.

Mel’s jaw tightens as Shoola’s words echo in her mind, sharp and dismissive. That people like Sevika only care about immediate gain. That they don’t understand alliances, strategy, or long-term thinking. That Mel will waste her time if she chases her.

But Mel isn’t so sure anymore. Sevika’s refusal hadn’t come from ignorance or impatience. It came from clarity. She didn’t want to be shaped into the council’s tool, a mouthpiece for their decisions. That much was clear. Sevika wanted something else entirely. Something deeper, and far more difficult to earn.

Mel sets the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound punctuating her thoughts. The council, for all its’ lofty ideals and intricate machinations, had never truly offered Sevika respect. They’d offered authority with strings attached. They’d expected compliance, not partnership. And Sevika had rejected it without hesitation.

Pacing slowly across the room, Mel lets the implications settle. Sevika might not care for the council’s games, but she isn’t indifferent to power. She values strength and respect—qualities that don’t come easily within Piltover’s gilded halls. And though Sevika’s bluntness and hostility might frustrate Mel, they also intrigue her.

She pauses by the window, gazing out at the city sprawling below her. The golden lights of Piltover seem distant, almost fragile against the vast darkness. Zaun lurks beneath the shimmering façade, its’ presence a constant reminder of the fracture they’re all pretending to mend. 

And somewhere in that divide stands Sevika, a woman who refuses to yield, even in the face of power and politics.

Mel lets Shoola’s words circle in her mind as she sinks into the armchair near the window. It had been delivered with the same dismissive certainty Shoola applied to most matters beneath her interest, but tonight, it carries an irritating weight.

Mel drums her fingers on the armrest, her nails clicking softly against the polished wood. The sentiment wasn’t entirely wrong—Sevika did bristle at the intricate maneuverings of the council, the endless debates cloaked in decorum. She had no patience for subtlety, and her disdain for Piltover’s elite was palpable. But Mel couldn’t shake the feeling that Shoola’s assessment was incomplete.

They only care about immediate gain. Mel rolls the phrase over in her thoughts, dissecting it. 

Immediate gain? No, that wasn’t quite it. Sevika wasn’t reckless or short-sighted. If anything, she was meticulous in her approach, weighing her moves like a tactician. What Shoola had mistaken for disinterest in alliances was something else—distrust.

The council had given Sevika every reason to doubt them. They hadn’t offered her a seat at the table as an equal; they’d offered her a leash, expecting her to toe the line like a dutiful enforcer. Even now, newer council members garnered more respect than Sevika, and their condescension was barely veiled.

Mel’s lips press into a thin line as she stares out at the city lights. Shoola’s view of Sevika mirrored the council’s at large—a crude simplification, a refusal to see beyond Zaun’s gruff exterior. Sevika wasn’t a pawn to be moved or a brute to be pacified. She was pragmatic, calculating, and fiercely independent. 

Traits that, in Zaun, had kept her alive and in power.

And yet, Mel knows there’s a truth to Shoola’s warning—Sevika is not one to wait patiently for respect she isn’t being offered. If the council continues to treat her as an outsider, a tool, she’ll walk. Or worse, she’ll push back. The fallout from that would be disastrous.

Mel exhales sharply, frustration creeping into her chest. It’s infuriating, how easily the council dismisses someone like Sevika—a woman who has seen war and chaos up close, who knows what it takes to rebuild from the ashes. 

Sevika might lack polish, but she possesses something Mel values far more: resolve.

She knows better than to brush off potential, even if it comes in an unconventional package. If Sevika truly only cared about immediate gain, she wouldn’t still be here. She would’ve walked away long ago, back to the familiarity of Zaun’s streets and shadows.

No, Sevika’s presence on the council, as reluctant as it seems, speaks volumes. She wants something, even if she doesn’t admit it outright. Respect. Validation. A place where her voice carries weight, not out of fear but out of recognition.

Mel leans back in her chair, letting the faint hum of the city fill the silence. She knows Shoola would scoff at the idea of offering Sevika anything more than a begrudging tolerance. But Mel also knows that true alliances aren’t built on coercion. They’re built on trust, even if it has to be earned piece by piece.

She allows herself a small, wry smile. If Sevika thinks she can’t be swayed, she has underestimated Mel entirely.

The realization sharpens Mel’s focus, her annoyance dissolving into a quiet determination. Sevika may think she has no place among the council, but that can change. Not with empty promises or veiled demands, but with something tangible. Something Sevika can’t refuse.

Mel’s hums to herself, a whisper breaking through the silence of her chambers, her gaze hardening as her reflection stares back at her. The path forward isn’t clear, not yet. But she thrives in the gray, in the spaces between power and persuasion. And if Sevika wants to be respected, Mel will find a way to make that happen.

It’s not just about politics anymore. It’s about possibility. Mel doesn’t back down from a challenge, especially one as compelling as Sevika.

Sevika’s loyalty, raw and uncompromising, could be the key to what she needs. But it’s not the loyalty that the council is demanding—blind and unquestioning. No, Sevika’s loyalty lies elsewhere. Mostly to herself, but also to the streets of Zaun, to the people who have fought beside her in the ruins of that city.

That’s the point of leverage Mel needs. If she can show Sevika that aligning with her—aligning with Piltover—could ultimately serve Zaun’s interests as well, perhaps even better than being dragged along by the council’s empty promises, then maybe, just maybe, she can get her on her side.

Loyalty to herself, she repeats in her mind. Sevika’s pride is as much a part of her as her mechanical arm, and while it makes her a stubborn ally, it also makes her an ideal one. She doesn’t bend easily to external pressure, but that’s not the kind of loyalty Mel can offer her.

There’s something intensely personal about this, something Mel feels in her gut as she sits back, reflecting. It’s not just politics; it’s the understanding of how power works when you’re from a place like Zaun, how every decision can either pull you forward or drag you down. Sevika knows that better than anyone.

In the back of her mind, Mel wonders if this could even be her chance to finally shake off the suffocating expectations of her own family, to stop playing their game and start her own. She’s spent too much time tiptoeing around what others want, bending herself into shapes she’s never fully embraced. With Sevika, she feels a strange sense of kinship—a recognition that sometimes, loyalty means holding your ground and making your own rules.

She knows it won’t be easy. Sevika doesn’t trust easily, and Mel’s reputation isn’t exactly built on being a trustworthy figure in Zaun. But if she can show Sevika that this isn’t about control or domination, if she can prove this is about rebuilding, about respect, maybe Sevika will come around.

Zaun, Mel thinks, isn’t just a place. It’s a force. And that’s what she needs.

Mel leans back, the weight of her decision settling on her shoulders. She’s always known that this war isn’t just about what Piltover and Zaun can gain from each other. It’s about what each side can rebuild from the wreckage.

This is her opportunity. And Sevika, stubborn and prideful as she is, might just be the perfect person to help her get where she wants.

———

Sevika leans back in her seat, arms crossed, watching the council members shuffle their papers and squirm in their chairs. 

“Look,” she says, casual but with an edge, “I don’t know what you think is going on down there, but the people in Zaun are barely scraping by. They’re hungry, they’re desperate, and they can’t get the basics.”

One of the council members, a middle-aged guy with glasses, clears his throat and adjusts himself in his chair. “Sevika, there’s no legal barrier to employing people from Zaun in Piltover,” he says, looking at her like he’s explaining something she should already know. “If they’re qualified, they can work. That’s not the issue.”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Right. So tell me why they’re still stuck in the undercity while Piltover’s all shiny and nice up here. Don’t give me that legal stuff. We both know they’re not getting those jobs, not unless they can jump through a hundred hoops that you’ve set up just to keep them out.”

The room goes quiet for a moment, and Sevika takes a slow drag from her cigarette, watching the council members exchange glances like they don’t quite know what to say to that.

A woman in a stiff, perfectly pressed suit, speaks up with a dismissive tone. “We have systems in place. There are opportunities, just not for everyone. People need to be trained, they need the right qualifications. That’s how the system works.”

Sevika snorts. “The system works for you. But it doesn’t work for the people in Zaun. They can’t afford your fancy schools or the time to get those ‘right qualifications’.”

Another council member clears his throat, his voice tight with frustration. “You’re simplifying things, Sevika. You can’t just give people jobs without making sure they’re capable of doing them.”

“Yeah, and the system’s set up to make sure they never get the chance to prove it,” Sevika shoots back, her voice getting sharper. “You’re not even giving them a shot.”

She leans forward a little, eyes narrowing. “If you don’t want another war on your hands, then maybe it’s time you start doing more than passing the buck around. Start by opening up some real opportunities for the people of Zaun. Otherwise, don’t be surprised when you find more kids in the streets. Or worse.”

The council looks uncomfortable, but none of them seem ready to concede. They’ve heard it all before, but hearing it from her, one of their own—well, Sevika assumes that hits a little differently.

Sevika leans forward, her expression serious as she stares down the council. The atmosphere in the room is heavy, the murmurs of disagreement from before quieted, awaiting her next words.

“I’m not saying we should magically create a law overnight,” she begins, her voice firm. “I know how this works. But we need to stop pretending like we’re doing enough just by ‘allowing’ Zaunites to get jobs here. There’s a lot of prejudice and bullshit that goes unchallenged.”

She pauses, letting that sink in, then continues. “So here’s what I propose. We apply fines. Make it costly for businesses that refuse to hire people from Zaun without a real reason. I’m not talking about some vague excuse about ‘qualifications.’ I’m talking about actual, documented discrimination. If they’re not willing to even try to give Zaunites a chance, fine them. Hit them where it hurts.”

The council exchanges glances, murmurs passing between them. Sevika’s eyes narrow, scanning the room, waiting for one of them to speak up.

One of the council members, the same guy who dismissed her earlier, raises his hand, trying to keep the conversation under control. “Sevika, you know as well as I do that businesses are often under tight regulations. Fines for something like this would be complicated, and we can’t just make arbitrary judgments on who’s discriminating and who isn’t.”

Sevika’s lip curls into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “Oh, I’m sure it’ll be complicated. Nothing’s ever easy. But you can’t ignore the issue just because it’s inconvenient.”

She leans back, crossing her arms, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “And I’m not asking you to make this a new law. I’m asking you to take responsibility for the one you already have. If Piltover is going to claim to be a place of opportunity, it needs to start acting like it. And sometimes that means holding businesses accountable.”

The room falls silent as the council members weigh her proposal. Some look uncomfortable, others thoughtful. Sevika knows this won’t be easy, but she’s not backing down. She’s tired of the endless excuses. 

After a long, tense moment, Mel, who’s been quietly listening, finally speaks up.

“It’s a bold idea,” she says, her tone thoughtful. “But I think Sevika’s right. There’s a gap between what’s allowed and what’s actually happening. Fines might not solve everything, but we might want to start there.”

Shoola finally breaks the silence, her voice hesitant. “We’ll need to draft specifics, set guidelines for what counts as discrimination.”

Sevika nods. “Yeah, you figure that part out. But it’s important that at least something happens.”

“Miss Sevika,” Silas speaks up, his voice clipped, “You’re pushing for a system that could throw everything out of balance. This isn’t something we’re going to simply ‘figure out.’”

Sevika pauses, her back straight, The hint in his words pressing down, silent but undeniable. She doesn’t need to look at the man to know what he’s thinking. Silas is all about control, maintaining the status quo, and Sevika’s proposal challenges that.

“Balance,” she shoots back, turning to face him. “You’re out of touch if you think things are balanced in Piltover. It’s already out of balance, and the longer you pretend otherwise, the worse it gets.”

Silas doesn’t flinch. “It’s not about pretending,” he replies, his voice as firm as steel. “It’s about maintaining order. If you start applying fines on businesses for reasons that aren’t clear-cut, you’re opening the door to chaos. This is exactly why we can’t afford such… unpredictable measures.”

Sevika leans forward, metallic fingers wrapped around flesh, squeezing slightly. “How long do you think people will keep sitting back and letting it happen? How many more lives need to be crushed before you understand that this isn’t just ‘law enforcement’ anymore?”

Silas stands firm. His gaze is sharp, deliberate, the kind that holds you in place without much of an effort. There is no softness to it, only a quiet demand for order, a weight Sevika can feel even when she looks away. “And how many people do you think will be willing to risk their livelihoods over something as vague as ‘discrimination’? This isn’t some charity. This is business. We are not going to risk everything for something we can’t control.”

Sevika clenches her fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface, but she managed keeps her voice steady. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re too focused on control.”

Silas narrows his eyes. “You’re naive. Imposing fines is not going to change anything. The people of Piltover aren’t going to just roll over because you tell them to. This is bigger than your ideals. The city has rules, and we enforce them.”

Sevika’s jaw tightens, the click of her teeth sharp in the silence. She knows this fight is pointless—Silas won’t back down. But the thought of standing by, of letting it play out, twists at something deep in her chest. She can’t just let it happen.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” she says, maintaining her voice cold now, holding back the trembling in her tone. “I’m giving people a reason to believe in something again. Don’t expect me to sit quietly while Piltover keeps choking the life out of Zaun.”

As she rises to leave, Silas’ voice cuts through the heavy quiet, sharper now, ringing with authority. She goes rigid, spine straightening, but doesn’t turn. His words spill out, measured yet cold, the kind that sinks beneath the skin. The shift in his tone turns her blood to ice, and she knows—she knows they’re more aware than ever of the hold they have on her, the way their words land with precision, pressing into the cracks they’ve long since learned to find. 

And now, they’re using it, measuredly, deliberately, just enough to remind her exactly who she is in this room.

“Listen to me,” he begins, addressing the room with a sharpness that only someone in his position could muster. “Sevika may be passionate, but she comes from a place where lawlessness reigns, where people do whatever they want without consequence. She doesn’t understand the delicate balance we’ve worked to maintain in Piltover.”

The room falls deathly silent, every gaze fixed on her. The weight of their judgment clings to her, heavy as smoke she inhales, seeping into her lungs with every breath. Her fingers curl tighter around her cloak, with her knuckles pale, but she stays rooted as Silas presses on, each word landing with brutal precision, relentless and calculated.

“Her sense of justice,” he says, with a condescension Sevika knows all too well, “is a product of Zaun’s broken streets, not the rules that keep Piltover from descending into anarchy. She’s caught in the idea that the world can be fixed with a few simple changes, but she doesn’t see the bigger picture—the repercussions that would follow.”

Sevika’s chest tightens, pulse drumming in her ears. His words land like a slap, sharp and deliberate, each one dragging up the bitter truth of where she came from. Zaun, the very city that hardened her, the streets she fought to survive. And the people she’s still fighting for. 

It’s one thing to have her ideas shut down, but to be cast aside so easily, reduced to her bloodline, her birthplace—feels like a betrayal she probably will never learn to swallow. 

She can’t stop the flicker of hurt that flashes across her face, sharp and fleeting, before she forces it down. Her jaw tightens, shoulders squaring as she schools her expression, determined to bury the vulnerability before it can be seen as weakness.

“She simply doesn’t get it,” Silas finishes, his voice gaining a smug, dismissive edge. “She’s lived in a place with no laws. So, of course, she thinks the answer is more regulations, more fines. But that’s not how things work here.”

The council members murmur in agreement, their eyes narrowing, some with skepticism, others with an almost imperceptible sense of superiority. As if Silas’ words have somehow devalued her in their eyes.

Sevika turns to face them, her voice low but steady, each word measured despite the ache tightening in her chest. The hurt lingers, raw beneath the surface, but she forces it back, letting the simmering anger sharpen her tone instead.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the council. “You think you know me because of where I come from, but you don’t. You don’t see what I’ve seen, and you don’t understand what I’ve had to do just to get here.”

Before Sevika can speak again, Mel pushes herself to her feet, the scrape of her chair against the floor slicing through the tension in the room. All eyes snap to her, but she remains still, her face a mask of unreadable calm. Her gaze flickers briefly to Sevika, eyes narrowing just enough to signal that she’s not blind to the stakes in the air. 

And yet, she’s the one walking away.

“I need to excuse myself,” she says, cool and composed, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. The words are an obvious dismissal, a subtle but clear indication that she’s choosing to avoid the confrontation. 

Without waiting for a response, she steps around the table and heads for the door.

Sevika watches her, her brow furrowing. She doesn’t know what to make of her sudden departure. Part of her expects a real conversation, a moment of connection or challenge. But instead, Mel is retreating, as if this whole situation were something she could simply step away from.

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving the room in a thick silence. And Sevika is left standing there, with the weight of her isolation settling in as the room shifts around her, entirely alone in her hurt. 

She can’t help but feel the sting of her own foolishness. She should’ve known better—should’ve known not to expect anything different, but the hope had bled through anyway, now crushed under the sharpness of these people.

Sevika feels the weight of their eyes on her, some filled with quiet smugness, others with a thin veneer of pity. They all watched Mel walk out, yet none of them are willing to break the silence, to address the chasm that’s been exposed. And Sevika, she’s still frozen in her place, the last one holding the broken pieces, forced to gather them alone.

Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, the sharp sting of anger buzzing under her skin. She can still hear the soft click of the door closing, but it feels as though the space between her and the council has widened beyond anything she’s ever experienced.

Mel didn’t just leave the room. She left Sevika’s words, left her frustration, left the truth of Zaun’s suffering, as if it didn’t matter enough to stand still for another second. Mel had been the one person Sevika had considered might be on her side, or at least see things her way, even for just a moment. 

But it seems that moment passed in the blink of an eye. Mel’s exit, her refusal to confront anything uncomfortable, burns like a punch to the gut.

Sevika’s gaze shifts back to the council. Their eyes are a mixture of disgust, boredom, and detached amusement. It’s as if they can’t even fathom what just happened, or worse, they think it’s all part of some grand performance. A few of them exchange looks, their voices low as they discuss something Sevika can’t quite catch. 

“Typical,” she mutters under her breath, the words tasting bitter as they leave her mouth. 

It’s not just that Mel left—it’s that the entire council has no interest in hearing anything real, no interest in doing anything substantial for Zaun. It’s the same as it’s always been. Talk, talk, talk. All of them just sit there, in their cushy chairs, with their politics, while people in the undercity are dying, suffocating under their rules.

Sevika can feel her pulse thumping in her ears, the weight of the room pressing down on her. She wants to say more. She wants to tear them apart, piece by piece, call out every hypocrisy they’ve ever spoken. But she knows it won’t matter. 

They’ll smile, dismiss her, and she’ll be right back where she started: another pawn in their board.

She finally lets out a sharp breath and turns on her heel, heading for the door. There’s nothing more to say here. Nothing to prove. She’s been speaking to deaf ears for far too long, and Mel’s exit just proves it.

The door slams behind her as she exits, the noise almost comforting in its’ finality. It’s loud enough to make her stomach twist, but not enough to drown out the quiet storm inside her. Her footsteps echo down the hallway as she makes her way out of the building, each step heavier than the last. 

She’s angry—no, more than angry. She’s furious, but it’s the kind of fury that’s been building for so long it’s starting to feel like numbness. Like the kind of heat that leaves you burned out, empty. And right now, she can’t even bring herself to care about what Mel’s exit means. She doesn’t care about the council, or Piltover, or whatever other excuse they have to keep doing nothing.

She reaches the front door, her fingers resting briefly on the handle before pulling it open with a sharp motion. The cool air of the night hits her face, and for a moment, she welcomes it. Anything to numb the tightness building in her chest. 

She steps outside, feeling the cold wind rush over her, cutting through her layers, and yet, she still feels overheated.

Her mind races as she walks, the clatter of footsteps on the cobblestones blending with the sharp beat of her pulse. The sky above is dark, the faint glow of the city lights barely piercing the heaviness of the night. The streets are quiet—too quiet—and for a brief moment, Sevika wonders if this emptiness is a reflection of her own frustration.

You’re not one of them, she reminds herself. You never were. And you never will be.

Her thoughts drift to Zaun, to the faces of the people she’s sworn to protect, and the faces of those she couldn’t. 

She can feel the weight of it all, the way it presses against her ribs until she can’t breathe. The council, Mel, Piltover—none of it means anything to her anymore. It’s all just smoke and mirrors, distracting her from what really matters. And right now, the only thing that matters is making sure the people of Zaun don’t get forgotten.

She grips the edge of her cloak tighter, the wind tugging at the fabric, and moves forward, her determination stronger than the anger she feels. 

———

Sevika stands in the shadows, her back pressed against the cold metal of a crumbling support beam, the dampness of the undercity pressing in around her. The low hum of Zaun’s ever-present machinery thrums beneath her boots, nearly drowned out by the steady drip of water from the rusted pipes overhead. 

Rain slicks the ground outside, pooling in uneven cracks along the edge of the alley, making the entire place smell of wet earth and rusted metal. She keeps her mechanical arm flexed, the faintest hiss of steam releasing from the plates as it tightens and relaxes in a slow rhythm, a habit now more than anything.

She hates waiting—always has. Too much time to think, to second-guess. Her fingers drum lightly against her side, restless. The damp air seeps into her skin, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the gnawing tension coiled tight in her gut. 

Meetings like this never feel secure, even in the most isolated parts of the Lanes. The Firelights were smart, sure, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be compromised. 

And Sevika? She had made too many enemies to feel safe in any corner of Zaun, even her own.

A scuff of footsteps echoes faintly down the narrow tunnel. She tenses, her free hand ghosting over the handle of the blade at her hip, just in case. But the sound is too light, too measured for an ambush. Seconds later, two figures emerge from the rain-soaked fog.

Green masks. Firelights.

They stop just outside the reach of the dim light leaking from a busted lantern overhead. One steps forward, head tilted slightly. A silent question.

Sevika pushes off the wall with a slow, deliberate motion, making sure the metallic scrape of her arm cuts through the silence. “You’re late.”

The lead Firelight doesn’t flinch, but their grip tightens on the strap across their chest. “Took precautions. You never know who’s listening these days.”

Sevika snorts, folding her arms. “Yeah? Well, you’re wasting my time. Let’s get this over with.”

The Firelight hesitates for half a second too long.

Sevika narrows her eyes. “What? Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet now. You asked for this meeting.”

The second figure shifts, glancing toward the lead, who finally speaks again, voice low and slightly distorted by the mask. “We need proof. You say you’re on Zaun’s side, but you’re working with them now. Council meetings, Piltover ties. That doesn’t sit well with our people.”

Sevika steps closer, the worn metal plates of her boots grinding against the stone. She’s tired of these same accusations. The same looks. Like she’s a traitor for trying to fix what Silco left behind instead of burning it all to the ground.

“You think I’m playing politics?” Her voice drops, low and sharp. “You think I give a damn about those rich bastards? I’m here. Meeting you. In the rain. On my own turf. Or did you forget who made sure your people didn’t get picked off when Silco fell?”

The Firelight shifts again but says nothing.

Sevika shakes her head. “You want proof? Look around. The shimmer trade is dying. Half the factories shut down. The other half? Being cleaned out, one by one. You don’t have to like how it’s getting done, but it’s getting done. I’m getting it done.”

Silence. Rain dripping, machines groaning in the distance. The lead Firelight finally nods, just once, a subtle gesture. “Then you have our attention.”

Sevika lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. She doesn’t trust them—but trust isn’t why she’s here. It never was.

The rain hisses down in a steady sheet, soaking through the gaps in the metal grates above. Water beads on her cloak, dampening the frayed edges, but she hardly notices. She’s too busy watching the Firelights, the way they linger instead of leaving—like they have more to say but can’t decide if they should trust her with it.

The lead figure shifts again, shoulders tensing. “Things in the Lanes are worse than you think.”

Sevika raises a brow, unimpressed. “I don’t think they’re good.”

The Firelight ignores the jab. “Supply routes are still cut off. Food’s scarce. Medicine, worse. The chem-barons have been sweeping up whatever’s left, selling it at prices no one can afford. People are desperate. And you know what desperate people do when they can’t feed their families.”

Sevika exhales slowly through her nose, jaw clenching. She knows. She’s lived it. Seen shimmer creeping back, quiet but constant, like rot under the surface. Some things never change, no matter how many factories she burns.

“What’s your angle, then?” She tilts her head, her fringe falling over her eyes. She tries to push them away with a jerky motion of her head, but the hairs just end up covering her face again. “You want me to march into the council again, beg for table scraps?”

The Firelight shakes their head. “No. We’re done relying on Piltover. We’ve been working on a different solution. Independent production. If Zaun produces its’ own besic resources, we won’t have to crawl to the surface every time things get tight.”

Sevika leans back slightly, crossing her arms. “And how’s that working out for you?”

The Firelight hesitates. “We’re close. But we don’t have the resources for a large-scale setup yet. And… we’re not exactly in a position to secure investors.”

“Investors, huh?” Sevika lets out a dry, almost bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. More like no one in this city is going to fund anything unless it lines their pockets or gets them high.”

The Firelight doesn’t deny it. Instead, they stay silent, their rain-slicked figure looming in the dim light, waiting for Sevika to make her move. She flexes her mechanical fingers, the soft whirr of the gears resonating in her arm as she carefully considers her next words. 

Part of her wants to walk away, to tell them it’s not her problem, not her fight. Zaun has been fighting its’ own battles for years, and maybe it was time to let the rest of the city burn. But something inside her shifts. She remembers Silco’s voice echoing in her mind—the dream of a free Zaun, a place that could stand on its’ own.

She had heard those words so many times from him, how Zaun was worth fighting for, worth building. Now, here she is, standing in the rain with the Firelights, the chance to make it real sitting right in front of her.

Sevika sighs, her breath misting in the cold air. Finally, she speaks. “I can get you funding,” she says. “But no half-measures. If I’m putting the money down, you need to make it work.”

The Firelight shifts slightly, their face still hidden behind the mask. Rainwater drips down the front, the sound of it mingling with the heavy silence. They step forward before they speak, the question blunt and simple.

“You serious?”

Sevika doesn’t hesitate, her gaze locked on the masked figures in front of her. “Deadly.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick with unspoken understanding. Then, the Firelight steps forward again and extends a gloved hand toward her. Sevika doesn’t think twice. Her mechanical hand closes around theirs with a solid, wet clang, the sound of metal meeting flesh filling the air. The grip is firm, unyielding.

“It’s a deal,” the Firelight says.

Sevika holds on for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the deal settle in her chest, before releasing their hand. “Alright,” she mutters, “What do you need first?”

The Firelight glances over their shoulder, eyes scanning the darkness for the other. A moment of hesitation, as though they’re weighing how much they can trust her, but then they speak.

“Food,” they say plainly, and also somewhat urgently. “The people in the Lanes are starving. Families haven’t seen a proper meal in weeks. Piltover’s supply chains are gone, and the scraps that are left get snatched up before anyone down here can even get to it. People are rationing, but some are barely hanging on.”

Sevika’s jaw tightens at the mention of the Lanes. It’s nothing new—she’s seen it before, heard it before—but hearing it again from the Firelights, it hits differently. 

She nods, her eyes narrowing in thought. “I can get you shipments from the west docks. Quiet ones.”

The Firelight nods but doesn’t relax, their stance still tense, their mask unreadable. They shift again, hands adjusting as though they’re trying to find the right words.

“And medicine,” they add, their voice carrying a hint of frustration. “We’ve got people who need it. Infections from the shimmer raids, injuries from the collapse—some of them won’t make it through the month without proper care.”

Sevika presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek as she thinks, fingers tapping against her thigh. “The factories up top are hoarding medical supplies. But I can pull some strings, see what I can get. It’ll take time though, a few weeks maybe. You’d need something faster.”

The Firelight exhales sharply, clearly frustrated but not surprised. “We can’t wait that long. We need something now.”

Sevika glances away for a moment. She knew this wouldn’t be easy, but she’s not backing down now. She raises her chin, her voice firm. “If you’re talking long-term solutions, you need more than just stopgaps. I can fund the start of your production line, enough to get you up and running without relying on scraps from Piltover. But you’re going to need people who can maintain it once it’s built. People who know what they’re doing.”

The Firelight nods slowly, their mask shifting just enough to reveal the hint of determination behind it. “We’ve got people who can learn. They just need the tools. And trust.”

Sevika laughs softly, a dry sound that’s almost bitter. “Yeah, well… Let’s just start with the food. One thing at a time.”

The rain hisses louder as it pelts the metal around them, the sound almost deafening in the stillness. Sevika steps back, her gaze never leaving the Firelight’s masked face. She watches them for a moment longer before she speaks again.

“I’ll have a shipment ready by the end of the week. West docks. Don’t be late.”

The Firelight gives a small nod, their posture relaxing just a fraction. “We won’t.”

Without another word, they turn and slip back into the shadows, the other firelight following quietly behind them. Sevika stands still for a moment longer, watching the rain blur their retreat until they vanish completely. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, the smoke curling up into the fog, dissipating as quickly as it rises.

Independence. The thought lingers in her mind. It’s a dangerous game she’s playing, but it’s one she knows well. Silco had always said they would have to build it themselves, create their own path. Now, Sevika has a chance to make it real.

She flicks the cigarette away, its embers disappearing into the mist as she turns and walks back into the shadows, her mind already working on the next step. The rain continues to fall around her, steady and unrelenting. It’s just another storm to the weather. 

———

The note arrives late in the evening, slipped under Sevika’s door so quietly that she almost misses it. She’s perched at her desk, sharpening a blade with slow, measured strokes when she notices the slip of parchment tucked just barely past the threshold. No footsteps in the hall. No knock. Only the quiet presence of it, as if it had materialized on its’ own.

She sets the blade down with a dull clink and picks up the note. The paper is expensive, heavier than it needs to be, with sharp, clean folds. When she lifts it, a faint trace of perfume clings to the fibers—cool, floral, tinged with something sharper underneath. Familiar. A scent that lingers in memory as much as on skin.

Unfolding it, she scans the message written in bold, deliberate strokes.

Private meeting. No guards. Tonight. — M.M.

No titles. No pretense of formality. Just two initials, precise and unmistakable. Mel Medarda.

Sevika stares at the words for a beat longer than necessary, lips pressing into a thin line.

The address isn’t anywhere official. Not the council chambers, not one of those sleek private salons where politicians whispered behind crystal glasses of imported wine. This was somewhere different—an abandoned garden on the far side of the Merchant Ward. Half-forgotten, empty except for herbs and echoes. Hidden, but not too far from power. Chosen carefully.

No guards.

The words stick in her mind.

She reads the note again, slower this time, searching for the trick. Mel didn’t make casual invitations, not without some ulterior motive woven between the lines. There was always a plan being executed when it came to her—every move premeditated, every word chosen like it might be the last piece to topple the board.

Sevika’s first instinct is to tear the damn thing in half and let it fall to the floor. What a joke. If Mel wanted to talk, she could’ve done it back in the council chamber instead of walking out like Sevika’s words hadn’t even been worth her time. Like Sevika was beneath all of them.

Her jaw tightens.

But then she remembers the way Mel had left the meeting. That tight-lipped silence as Silas cut her off. Sevika hadn’t missed it—how Mel’s gaze had shifted, sharp and calculating, but not victorious. Not that time.

So what was this? A peace offering? An ambush? Or was Mel just circling back, ready to deliver some private lesson in civility like the rest of them seemed to think she needed?

Sevika presses her thumb into the crease of the paper, folding it tighter.

The part that stings the most is how much she wants to know.

Mel had seen her at that table—more than the others ever did. And now, despite the bitter taste lingering from that evening, she can’t shake the feeling that this invitation means something.

She pockets the note, the edges bending slightly against her palm, and stands to grab her coat. The worn leather smells faintly of smoke and rain as she shrugs it over her shoulders. She keeps herself busy with the day’s tasks, though none of them fully hold her attention. The invitation lingers, a knot tightening in her chest no matter how much she tries to work around it.

The factory reports arrive first, damp at the edges from the rain and smelling faintly of oil. She thumbs through them without really reading, the same tired figures—supplies short, production behind, more workers getting sick from the fumes. Nothing surprising. 

She signs off on what she can, scrawling her name hard enough to nearly tear the page, then sets the papers aside.

Next comes the patrol shift rotations. A quiet meeting in the warehouse with a mix of Zaunites and Piltover officers, standing on opposite sides of the room like the damp air between them might catch fire. Sevika reads through the schedule aloud, her voice sharp, cutting off their murmurs. 

She can feel the tension in the room—the barely concealed resentment of her own people, the smugness in the way the officers cross their arms. When she catches one of the Piltover men sneering under his breath about the scrap rats, her patience frays entirely.

“Hey,” Sevika snaps, her voice echoing in the hollow space. The room stills. “I don’t care how many medals you polish up there in your ivory towers. Down here? You do your job or you get the hell out. Clear?”

Silence. Then a muttered agreement. She doesn’t look at the officers again as she leaves.

But even as she walks back to her chambers, the irritation doesn’t fade. This was the reality of it all, wasn’t it? This divide they were so content to pretend wasn’t there. When Mel called her to speak of alliances and cooperation, what had she imagined? That Sevika could smooth all of this out with a few carefully worded speeches? As if they could talk their way out of a generation of oppression.

She thinks back to the way Mel had looked at her during the last council meeting—sharp, assessing, like she was already calculating the outcome before Sevika had even finished speaking. That was how the council worked. No one listened to words—they listened to power. Influence. And for all Mel’s poise, for all the times she’d seemed content to let the others dismiss Sevika, she’d still reached out.

Why? Not out of kindness. Mel Medarda didn’t waste her time on sympathy.

No, she must have seen something. Some use for Sevika. Or maybe, Sevika considers, she had noticed something the others hadn’t—the fact that Sevika wasn’t just there to take orders.

The rain outside turns heavier, soft patters against the window turning to a steady drum. Sevika stares down at the note again, jaw clenched.

This wasn’t about submission. Not for her.

She would go. But if Mel wanted something from her, she would have to say it outright. And if the council thought they could keep treating her like a token from the Undercity—like something they could summon when convenient and discard just as easily—

Well.

She’s still unsure as she makes her way through the halls. The walk to the garden is quiet, the faint whisper of the evening breeze mingling with the low hum of Piltover’s distant streets. 

The city, always alive, seems to hold its breath here, the delicate balance of life and structure carefully maintained. But Sevika doesn’t care about the city’s hum right now. Her mind is occupied by the meeting ahead, and the strange feeling that lingers in the air when she thinks about Mel.

The further she walks into the garden, the more it feels like a space suspended from the rest of the world. The stone paths are carefully laid, and the iron gate creaks softly as she pushes it open, stepping into the quiet sanctuary. Despite the dampness in the air, the garden holds its calm, the greenery surrounding her like a quiet barrier from the chaos outside. 

It’s strange how something as simple as a garden can feel so disconnected from everything else, like it was meant to hide something or protect it from prying eyes.

And yet, as she moves deeper into the space, Sevika finds herself focused on the figure standing at the far end, near the wisteria-covered trellis. It’s Mel, of course. She stands still, not looking back yet. Sevika’s eyes flick over her figure, noting the subtle differences.

Mel isn’t wearing the sharp, formal attire that typically characterizes her position in the council. Instead, she’s in a loose-fitting black jacket, a dark green blouse, and trousers that hang comfortably at her sides. It’s the kind of attire that speaks less of diplomacy and more of a personal choice—relaxed, unguarded.

It’s not subtle. Her choice of clothing is a clear departure from the polished, controlled image she typically presents in the council chambers. The loose fit, the muted colors. It’s meant to say something—maybe that she’s not the stoic, calculated councilwoman in this space. That she’s just Mel for once.

Sevika almost scoffs at the thought. It’s probably part of the act, she realizes. An attempt to be more approachable, more real, to make her feel like this conversation is something personal, between equals. The truth, however, is likely far more complex.

She doesn’t approach immediately. Instead, she stands still for a moment, eyes narrowing. Mel still hasn’t turned around, her back facing Sevika as if lost in her thoughts. She wonders if she’s aware of her approach, or if she’s just pretending, caught up in her own plans and strategies.

The silence stretches on, and Sevika’s patience wears thin. She’s not someone to stand idly by, especially not when someone is playing their part in this little drama.

“You’re just going to stand there?” Her voice cuts through the quiet, low but deliberate. “Or are you waiting for me to say something?”

It takes a beat, but then Mel slowly turns, her calm expression still in place, though there’s something different in her eyes now. Less guarded, perhaps, but more alert.

“I thought I’d let you speak first,” she says, her voice smooth, measured as always. She steps forward, her movements relaxed but purposeful. “After all, you were the one who called attention to how the council treats you.”

Sevika grits her teeth, the edge of her frustration barely contained. “What’s this about?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowing. “You wanted to talk.”

Mel seems to consider her response carefully, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’m interested in seeing if we’re on the same page, Sevika,” she says, soft but tinged with something more, something that feels like an offer, or maybe a challenge. “I think you could be a powerful ally.”

Sevika tilts her head slightly, skeptical. “And I think you might be wasting my time.”

Mel laughs, just a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not as simple as you like to make yourself out to be. And neither am I.” She steps closer, her gaze steady. “So, why don’t we see where we can take this, hm?”

Sevika stares at her, studying the way her posture shifts just slightly—like someone who’s in control but doesn’t want to make it obvious. It’s a careful dance, and Sevika feels the weight of the moment pressing in around her. The garden, the quiet, the way Mel looks at her now—it all feels like some sort of maneuvering, but Sevika isn’t sure who’s influencing who just yet.

“Have you ever heard of my mother?” Mel asks, probably knowing the answer is obvious to most. She glances toward Sevika, but there’s a slight hesitation before their eyes meet, as if she’s unsure whether she’s ready to share this part of herself. The faintest flicker of emotion dances behind her normally controlled attitude. “She believed in the power of Piltover, in what it could become. But she also believed in the people who were under it all.”

Sevika stands still, trying to make sense of what Mel’s saying. The words are cryptic, wrapped in a sense of grief that she has never seen before, and she can’t decide if she’s being offered some kind of insight into Mel’s mind, or if this is another act she’s forming—another situation she’s testing to see how Sevika reacts.

“My mother never thought I was enough. Not in the way that Piltover demands.” She continues, taking a breath, her gaze shifting briefly to the path that leads through the garden. It’s almost as if she’s trying to make sense of her own thoughts. “I couldn’t ever meet her expectations. She thought I’d break the mold. That I could be different—better—but in the end, I just ended up taking the same path she laid out before me.”

Sevika stands there, silent, trying to process this sudden vulnerability. It’s unlike Mel, who’s always been so meticulous, so in control. But here, now, with the soft rain falling between them, the cracks in Mel’s composed exterior are visible. Sevika can’t help but notice how much this seems to weigh on her, how much Mel is wrestling with it.

For a moment, Sevika isn’t sure what to do with this. She doesn’t expect a conversation about Mel’s mother, nor does she know why Mel has chosen to share it with her now. She has to admit she’s taken off guard by this rare openness.

Mel’s gaze flickers back to her, the hint of something more raw flashing in her eyes before it’s masked once again. “And now, I’m not sure what I feel anymore,” she admits, and for a brief moment, she looks older than Sevika has ever seen her. “It’s strange, not having her constant pressure weighing on me, but at the same time, it’s like there’s an emptiness. I didn’t realize how much of myself was tied up in what she expected.”

Sevika can sense that Mel is not just talking about her mother. There’s something else—some deeper frustration, some unspoken longing beneath her words that Sevika isn’t sure she wants to uncover. It’s as though Mel is searching for something, some validation, some purpose, that she’s only now coming to terms with.

Sevika wants to tell her that she understands, although she’s not quite sure if she actually does. 

Her own life has been filled with hardship, sure, but she hasn’t had to deal with the kind of legacy Mel is burdened with. Her loyalty has always been to herself and to Zaun, and everything she’s done, she’s done for her own reasons.

Mel lets out a breath, her expression softening, almost relieved. “I think that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I thought maybe… you would understand. What it feels like to be trapped by other people’s expectations. To be in a position where every decision you make seems to be scrutinized.”

Sevika tilts her head slightly, still somewhat uncertain about the weight of the conversation. “You think I care about that?” She laughs dryly. “I’ve never given a damn about expectations. Not when it comes to Piltover, and not when it comes to anyone.”

There’s a pause. Mel stares at her for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly, almost as if she’s trying to assess if she is being truthful. Finally, she nods. “You don’t let anyone else define you. That is something I’ve been trying to figure out.”

“You don’t need anyone’s approval to decide who you are,” Sevika says, her voice steady. “You make your own choices.”

Mel looks at her for a long moment, as though weighing the sincerity of her words. The silence stretches, both of them standing in the dim light of the garden, the soft drizzle of rain adding a sense of finality to the conversation.

“I’m trying to learn that,” Mel finally responds, her voice softer now, almost contemplative. “And perhaps that’s why I’m talking to you.”

Sevika doesn’t want to answer immediately. She’s still processing the unexpected turn in their conversation, still trying to make sense of Mel’s quiet revelations. There’s something in her tone, something raw and honest, that pulls at her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It’s a glimpse of something beyond the diplomat—the woman trying to find herself, trying to untangle the complicated web of duty and identity.

But Sevika doesn’t offer her sympathy. She doesn’t need to. Mel simply nods slowly, her eyes flicking down to the wet stone path. There’s a brief, shared silence between them, the trees rustling softly around them, as though the world itself is waiting for the next move.

And in that quiet, Sevika can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, they’re both looking for something the other might offer. Something neither of them expected to find in this strange alliance.

“What do you want me to do with all of this?” She asks, leaning slightly forward, her eyes fixed on Mel. She’s clearly waiting for something tangible, something that makes sense. It doesn’t matter how similar they might appear—or Mel might want them to appear—Sevika doesn’t want to be dragged into more ambiguous conversations that only make her question her place in all of this.

Mel hesitates for just a moment, before she looks Sevika directly in the eyes. There’s a softness to her expression now, something that wasn’t there before—perhaps the weariness from everything she’s been holding back, or maybe the vulnerability in admitting just how much she’s relying on someone else to make sense of her own life.

“I want you to see this as something more than just a transaction,” she starts, her voice steady but cautious, as if the words feel unfamiliar even to her. “An alliance, of sorts. I’m talking about a real one—one where we both have something to gain. I don’t want to do this alone, but I can’t do it with just anyone either. I can’t repeat what my mother did, believing that I’m somehow better than others, that I deserve to make the decisions for everyone else because I’m entitled to it.”

Sevika stays quiet, letting the weight of Mel’s words settle between them. Her gaze shifts to Mel’s clothes, tracing the delicate gold accents that catch the dim light, the subtle elegance of it all. She doesn’t meet Mel’s eyes—there’s something in them she’s not ready to face, something that could challenge everything she’s built up. 

Instead, she focuses on the soft gleam of metal, the threads of her thoughts pulling tight as she tries to ignore the growing tension in the air.

“You don’t want to make the same mistakes,” she finally says. “But you’re looking for someone… who can help make the right decisions without thinking they’re above everyone else. Is that it?”

Mel nods, her lips pressing into a thin line as she seems to search Sevika’s face for a sign—something that says Sevika gets it, or at least doesn’t dismiss it outright. “Exactly. I want to build something better, and for that I need someone who’s willing to see the bigger picture, not just what’s immediately in front of them. Needless to say, I think you could be that person, Sevika.”

Sevika stands there, feeling the weight of Mel’s words press down on her. The air between them is thick with unspoken things, the silence a tangible presence that stretches longer than necessary. It’s strange, how easy it would be to just walk away, to leave this conversation behind like every other one before it. 

She could easily tell Mel to keep her offer, that alliances and political stratagems aren’t her thing. That Zaun, her people, that’s what matters. The rest? Not hers to fight for.

But those words sit with her, like a dull ache, something she’s always pushed aside, but can’t anymore. The chance to actually build what Silco always talked about, to create the freedom they once dreamed of—it’s in her hands now.

She could say no, but the idea of it lingers, like a possibility she hadn’t even considered. What if she could have more than just survival? What if this was the way forward, even if it meant trusting someone like Mel?

She pushes the thought away for a moment, her gaze skimming the ground, then back to Mel, still standing with that calm, knowing look, as if she’s waiting for Sevika to make her choice. The tension in her chest grows heavier, the decision gnawing at her.

She could walk away, yes. But could she really?

“You want me to trust you,” Sevika says, her voice cutting through the quiet, “and you want to show me that you’re not your mother. But what if that’s just more talk? What if you’ll do the same thing and end up in the same place?”

Mel doesn’t back down from her gaze, though there’s a flicker of uncertainty behind her eyes. “I can’t promise I won’t make mistakes. But I can promise you I won’t make the same ones.”

Sevika stands motionless, her mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts. The offer is tempting, too tempting, but the heaviness of it bears down on her chest. She tries to shake it off, to push the idea away, but it lingers like a shadow, pulling at her.

The silence stretches longer than it should. Her fingers twitch, and she flexes her prosthetic, a mechanical movement that somehow feels both reassuring and distant. She needs more time. Time to think, to decide whether or not this is a path worth walking.

Her eyes dart to the side, avoiding Mel’s stare, and she exhales sharply, almost as if she’s physically expelling the thoughts that crowd her head. She can feel the pull of something more, something bigger than just surviving day to day. 

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? She’s never been someone to chase something bigger. She’s always been about what’s in front of her, what she can control.

She is such a fucking hypocrite.

“I’m not some pawn for you to use when it’s convenient,” she says, her tone growing colder. “I don’t care what kind of promises you’re making. You want me to take you at face value, to work with you… just like that? I don’t think so.”

Her hand tightens at her side, the metal of her prosthetic scraping against the tension in her grip. Her knuckles are white, the force of it enough to make her feel the pressure in her bones. As Mel’s words echo in her mind, a bitter taste rises in her throat. It’s all too familiar—the promises of change, of loyalty. She’s heard it all before.

Every time, someone has come to her with a plan, a vision that seemed like it could make a difference, a way to finally lift Zaun out of the dirt. And each time, it’s ended the same way. They make promises, swear loyalty, and then—when the going gets tough—they turn their backs. They abandon her. 

It’s always been about their own gain, their own interests. She’s learned that lesson the hard way, more times than she cares to count.

She stares ahead, her expression hard, trying to hold onto whatever semblance of control she has left. The air between them feels suffocating now, the weight of her past experiences clinging to her every word, every breath. She’s not sure she can trust Mel, but then again, she’s not sure she can trust anyone.

“Your mother may have thought she was better than everyone,” she mutters under her breath, almost as if speaking more to herself than to Mel. “But she wasn’t wrong about everything. People like you,” she says, finally turning her gaze back to Mel, “think you can make a difference from the top down. You think that if you just have the right words, the right ideas, everything will fall into place. But it doesn’t work like that.”

“I’m not saying no,” she adds, her voice quiet but firm. “But I’m not saying yes, either. Not yet. Don’t expect me to blindly follow you just because you don’t want to be your mother. Show me you can do more than just talk.”

Sevika meets Mel’s gaze with a hardened look, as if daring her to disagree, to push further into a conversation that feels far too close to betrayal. Her eyes narrow, challenging, a silent question lingering between them; will this time be different?

For a moment, Mel’s expression falters. She doesn’t flinch, but there’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes, as though she can see the weight Sevika carries. 

Under the pale glow of the moon, her presence is almost ethereal, standing in stark contrast to the more rugged surroundings of Zaun. The soft light catches her hair, her features, giving her a delicate yet undeniable elegance that Sevika can’t quite ignore. 

For a moment, Sevika finds herself at a loss for words, watching as Mel carefully steps through the garden. It’s a far cry from the harsh reality of the Undercity, the vibrant colors of different herbs and delicate flowers filling the air with an unfamiliar scent, a sharp contrast to the suffocating air of Zaun’s lower districts.

“I’d like you to know that I chose this garden because of the masterwort,” Mel says, her voice almost honey-sweet, curling around her words. “It’s a plant that thrives in conditions where others can’t. It’s rare, much like this garden—an oasis in the midst of everything else.”

Sevika’s gaze sharpens, the challenge in her eyes more evident now, but she remains silent, letting Mel’s words hang in the air. Her mind races, sifting through the layers of what’s been said, weighing the depth of this offer, this unspoken invitation to connect. 

She’s always gravitated toward places that survive, that endure, whether through brute force or sheer will. Zaun, with all its’ rust and grime, is a testament to that resilience—something she’s carried in her bones her whole life.

Mel continues, her fingers lightly grazing the petals of a nearby flower, her eyes distant. “I suppose I’ve always felt a connection to things that grow in the shadows. Weeds, flowers, people… It’s all the same. But masterwort, it’s something special. It doesn’t need attention to survive. It doesn’t need care, not in the way other things do. But, when it does receive that attention, it flourishes. It can heal wounds, both physical and emotional. That’s the power of it.”

Sevika watches her closely, her lips pressed in a thin line. “And you think you can heal Zaun like that?” she asks, a bit harsher than she intends, though the question lingers in the air like a challenge.

Mel meets her gaze without wavering her posture straight, but there’s a hint of something softer behind her eyes. “Perhaps,” she says, the word leaving her lips with a surprising vulnerability. “But it’s not just about healing. It’s about growth. There’s no easy fix for what’s been done to Zaun, or to you. I know that. But if we don’t try, if we don’t create something that thrives despite the odds, we’re left with nothing.”

Sevika feels a tightness in her chest, the sincerity in Mel’s voice catching her off guard. It’s a quiet intensity, raw and honest, cutting through the usual political game, the carefully chosen words that mask true intentions. For a brief moment, she almost lets herself believe it—lets herself imagine that this could be the turning point, the time where someone truly means what they say. The possibility of change, of something better for Zaun, stirs something deep inside her.

“You can’t change the system,” Sevika mutters, taking a step forward, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. “That’s a big dream. One that people like you are always chasing.”

Mel turns to face her, her eyes steady, unwavering. “It is a dream, isn’t it? But it’s the only kind worth chasing.”

The weight of the offer is palpable, the moonlight casting a silvery glow around them. The garden feels quieter now, as if the world has paused just for a moment, allowing the silence to settle between them. 

Sevika’s mind races, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. The pull of Mel’s words tugs at something deep inside her, a fragile hope she hasn’t allowed herself to feel in years. For just a moment, she considers it—the possibility of a real alliance, of something more than just survival in this city. 

But that fleeting hope is quickly drowned by the sharp voice of her instincts, the distrust that’s been etched into her since childhood. It’s a cold reminder, the constant companion of someone who’s seen too much of the world’s cruelty.

“I’m not sure I’m the kind of person who can afford dreams like that,” she replies, her voice almost quieter now, and she almost feels as though she is testing her own resolve.

Mel tilts her head, studying her with a look that feels too sharp, too knowing. “Maybe not. But maybe it’s not about the kind of person you are now.”

Sevika doesn’t reply immediately, her gaze lingering on her face, searching for something—anything—to tip the scales one way or the other. The silence between them feels thick, crackling with unspoken words, heavy with the weight of a decision that could change everything. The beauty of the garden, the delicate flowers, somehow intensifies the gravity of the moment. 

Each petal, each leaf, seems to whisper a promise of something softer, something different. It’s all at odds with the harsh world they live in, the world Sevika has always known.

But she doesn’t let it show.

She clears her throat, turning her gaze away from Mel. “You still think I’m going to follow you, huh?”

Mel steps closer, determined. “I’m not asking you to follow me, Sevika. I’m asking you to walk with me.”

Sevika meets her eyes once more, her lips curling into a faint smile. “We’ll see, Medarda.”

And with that, the moment passes, leaving them both in the quiet of the garden, the moonlight still casting its’ glow on the masterworts that bloom amidst the shadows. The world outside of this place is harsh, unforgiving. But in this brief, fleeting moment, Sevika allows herself to wonder—what if? What if it could be different?

She steps away towards the exit, the scent of the garden clinging to her, a subtle reminder of the conversation, of the offer Mel made.

The soft, earthy fragrance wraps around her like a lingering touch, almost suffocating in its’ sweetness, as though the garden itself is reluctant to let her go. She walks through the quiet streets, her footsteps heavy on the cobblestones, the weight of the evening settling on her chest.

Her thoughts drift back to Silco, to the man who had built the foundation of everything she had fought for. She imagines what he would have done in her place—how he would’ve manipulated the situation, used his influence, bent people to his will with cold precision. 

Silco never hesitated when it came to power, when it came to taking control. If he were still here, he would have seized the moment. He would’ve known exactly what to say to make everyone fall in line, to make the system work for him, no questions asked.

But Silco’s not here anymore, and the bluntness of that truth presses harder than ever. He’s gone, and Sevika is left with the remains of what they had built—a crumbling empire, a broken dream—and herself. She isn’t sure where to go from here, or even who she is without the man who shaped her world.

Her fingers brush the hilt of her weapon as she walks, a reminder of her old life, of the world she knew. But it feels different now. The streets of Zaun, the tension in the air, the constant fight for survival—they all seem less certain. She knows, deep down, that she’s standing at a crossroads, and for the first time, she’s the one who has to decide which path to take.

Sevika isn’t sure if she can trust this offer, or if she even wants to. She’s always fought for herself, for Zaun, for something better. But has she been fighting for the right things? Has she been fighting for the future she wants, or just the one that’s always been in front of her?

She slows her pace, stopping at the edge of a bridge that overlooks the darker waters of Zaun. The city stretches out before her, a sprawling maze of rust and decay. She knows it like the back of her hand—knows the alleys, the backstreets, the places where the fight for survival is a daily battle. But what if there’s more to it than that? What if Mel’s vision is something worth considering?

A deep breath fills her lungs, the cool night air mixing with the faint remnants of the garden’s scent. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting the thoughts swirl, her skin buzzing against the harsh fabric of her clothes.

———

Sevika’s boots hit the cracked streets of Zaun with a steady, purposeful rhythm, the weight of her thoughts still lingering from her conversation with Mel. The moon is high, casting long shadows across the rusted infrastructure and labyrinthine alleys that make up the heart of Zaun. 

She’s been gone for a few days, meeting with the council, dealing with things that seem far removed from the daily grind of survival. The absence had been enough to make her feel a strange disconnect—a reminder of how much of herself she had tied up in this city, in its fight for a future that wasn’t dictated by Piltover.

But as she nears the familiar corners of Zaun, that sense of displacement vanishes. The noise, the chaos, the constant hum of machines—this is her world. This is where she belongs.

When she reaches the main warehouse, the place where shipments are usually prepared and sent out, she’s met with an unexpected sight. The doors, which should have been wide open by now, are shut. The usual hustle and bustle is eerily quiet. No workers moving crates, no shouts calling out orders. It’s as if the place is holding its breath.

Her brows furrow. She moves through the darkened entryway and steps into the warehouse, where the dim light reveals the stillness. One of her people, a young woman who she recognizes from the crew, is standing near the far wall, arms crossed, her face tense.

“What’s going on?” Sevika’s voice cuts through the silence, her tone sharp but not impatient. 

The woman turns to face her, her eyes flickering with frustration. “The shipment’s stalled,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “Piltover’s interference. The paperwork’s been delayed for days. They’ve blocked us at every turn.”

Sevika’s fists clench at her sides. She had hoped, briefly, that things might change after the council meeting, that there could be a shift, that maybe, just maybe, someone in Piltover might have seen reason. But the truth stings just as much as it ever did.

“Who’s in charge of this?” she demands, already scanning the area for any sign of the people responsible.

Her worker hesitates, looking around nervously. “The usual, ma’am. The bureaucrats. They’re stalling it all under the guise of ‘red tape’.”

“Fine,” Sevika mutters, eyes hardening. “Then we find another way. I’m not waiting around for these damn bureaucrats to decide if we live or die. Get the others together,” she says, her voice low but resolute. “We move tonight. I’m not waiting for Piltover’s approval.”

The worker nods, catching her determination. “Yes, ma’am.”

With a final glance at the empty warehouse, Sevika walks into the night, the familiar weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders once more. She can feel the heat of the upcoming battle rising in her chest. This time, she’s not waiting for permission. This time, she’s going to take control.

It takes about half an hour to round up everyone she needs. The team moves quickly, hauling the shipments out the back door of the warehouse, their footsteps muffled by the quiet of the night. They head toward the streets, the weight of the cargo steady in their hands, none of them speaking, each step taking them further from the tension they left behind.

She curses under her breath as she watches the convoy of supplies sit idle, stacked high with crates of food, medical supplies, and essentials meant for the Firelights. 

The route is supposed to be clear, the plan simple: get the goods to the Firelights’ hidden base without drawing the attention of Piltover’s guards or any other prying eyes. But as always, things aren’t going according to plan.

The alley she’s standing in is too quiet, the faint sound of footsteps echoing far too loudly in the heavy silence. The route she’s chosen is usually safe, a few winding paths through the undercity’s more obscure sectors, where the traffic is light and the risk of being spotted is minimal. 

She glances over her shoulder, her senses on high alert. Even the air feels thick, weighed down with the promise of danger. Sevika doesn’t need to be told something’s wrong; she can feel it in her bones.

A distant hum catches her attention—one of Piltover’s patrol airships, its’ light blinking through the misty night air. It’s too close for comfort. She curses again, muttering to herself as she walks back to the convoy. The workers, a mixture of Firelights and some of her own crew, are trying to unload the supplies as quickly as possible, but it’s too obvious. Too much of a risk.

“Move faster,” Sevika growls as she approaches. “They can’t spot us. Keep it clean.”

One of the crew, a young man with a nervous twitch, looks up at her. “We’re almost done, Sevika. Just a few more crates…”

“Not good enough.” Her tone leaves no room for hesitation. “They’ll have us locked down if we’re not out of here before that patrol gets too close. You think we can outrun them?”

The worker shakes his head. “No chance. We need to find a way to distract them.”

Sevika’s eyes flick to the path ahead, mentally mapping out the distance. They don’t have time for a diversion. She doesn’t need to be reminded that a distraction could cost them everything. If Piltover catches even a glimpse of the shipment, it’s over. The Firelights would be exposed, and the whole network of their underground operations would fall apart.

“Get the crates covered,” she orders, thinking fast. “Move them into the alleyways, keep them out of sight. And get the firework carts ready.”

The Firelights are resourceful. They’d set up smuggling routes in the past using fireworks and other distractions to throw off Piltover’s air patrols. With enough time, they could make a scene to lure the guards away from the shipment, but time is a luxury they don’t have.

The crew begins to move with urgency, scrambling to cover the crates with old tarps and metal sheets. Sevika watches them work, her mind racing. The Firelights might have their resources, but they’re not prepared for the scale of Piltover’s surveillance. They have no real air cover, no way to compete with Piltover’s technology. If Sevika can’t make it to the rendezvous in time, they could lose the entire shipment.

The patrol ship is getting closer, its’ engines throbbing through the air, and Sevika feels the pressure mounting. She steps forward, her hand gripping the hilt of her weapon, but she knows it’s not a fight she can afford to pick right now. 

“Move!” she snaps. “We’ve got one shot at this.”

As the crew finishes covering the last of the crates, Sevika makes the decision to split them up. Some of the team will take the crates through the smaller tunnels in the north, while others will create the diversion. It’s risky, but it’s their best option.

“Get ready for the fireworks,” she warns. “Make it loud. and draw their attention. We’ll move right under.”

The Firelights nod, already positioning the crates to be moved as soon as the first signal is given. The convoy is split, and Sevika leads the first group into the narrow tunnels, praying the distraction works. She keeps her head low, moving swiftly through the shadows.

Just as they make it out of the alley and onto a less-patrolled path, the first flare of light explodes into the sky, sending a shower of colors into the night. It’s enough to distract the airship, but Sevika doesn’t wait to see the result. She urges her team forward, moving at a pace that makes her heart pound in her chest.

The supply route is treacherous, the way full of obstacles, but she pushes them forward with determination. They move swiftly through the shadowy streets, just one step ahead of the chaos they’ve created.

By the time they reach the Firelights’ base, the first patrol airship has already passed, the light dimming in the distance. The shipment is safe for now, but Sevika knows it won’t be long before Piltover tightens its grip again, and she’ll have to find another way.

As she watches the crates being unloaded into the Firelights’ underground base, she can’t shake the feeling that Piltover’s interference is becoming more than just an obstacle. It’s a sign that things are escalating, that they’re running out of time. 

She’s not sure how much longer she can keep pulling these tricks out of her sleeve before they’re caught. 

She figures that for tonight, at least, she’s won this round. 

She meets with the group leader, a tall, weathered woman with a sharp gaze who goes by the name Kora. Sevika walks up to her, wiping the sweat from her brow. 

Kora’s crew had been tasked with creating the distraction during the operation, and now, they stand near the base of the Firelights’ hideout, the tension of the failed operation still hanging heavy in the air.

“Did it work?” Kora asks, her voice a low rasp, the weariness of their work evident in the way she stands.

Sevika leans against a rusted metal wall, crossing her arms, her gaze distant as she processes the operation’s aftermath. “It worked, but just barely. It’s only a matter of time before they find another way to track our movements.”

Kora nods, her jaw tightening at the news. “And the shipment?”

“All of it made it through,” Sevika replies, clicking her tongue “We got the supplies to the Firelights without them noticing. But we can’t afford another slip-up like this. Piltover’s resources are endless, and they’ll be back. We need to make a move before they catch on.”

Kora doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies Sevika, as if trying to weigh the seriousness in her words. Finally, she exhales, her frustration clear. “It’s not just about getting the supplies through anymore, Sevika. It’s about the bigger picture. Piltover won’t stop until they’ve crushed everything that makes this place move. We need more than distractions. We need a plan that gets us out from under their boot.”

Sevika’s lips curl slightly at Kora’s words. “That’s what I’ve been saying. But it’s not just a matter of getting past the patrols. We’ll need resources, alliances… and that’s not something we can build overnight.”

Kora steps closer, her voice dropping to a low whisper. “What are you thinking?”

Sevika’s gaze hardens. “We need a bigger reach. We need to go directly after the things Piltover relies on—anything that keeps them in control. If we can disrupt their supplies, their operations… we can hit them where it hurts. They can’t keep an eye on everything, and we need to exploit that.”

Kora’s eyes gleam with a spark of something—recognition, maybe. “Disrupt their grip on us, take away their power?”

Sevika nods, feeling the weight of the plan settle over her. “Exactly. We need to build a network, start by cutting off their resources before they can strengthen them. And for that, we’ll need people on the inside. That’s the hardest part. We need to find who’s loyal to Zaun, who’s willing to help us.”

Kora exhales sharply, her eyes narrowing in thought. “You’re talking about more than just smuggling now.”

Sevika smirks, waving her hand around in a vague gesture. “War, politics, whatever you want to call it.”

Kora’s expression hardens, the weight of the decision almost taking form as it rests on her shoulders. “I’ll talk to the others, see who’s willing to commit.”

Sevika watches Kora’s retreating figure for a moment before turning her attention to the Firelights’ hideout, the flickering lights in the distance serving as a reminder of the battles Zaun had and still has to go through. 

———

Sevika stands in the garden once more, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. The moonlight filters through the trees, casting long shadows that stretch across the manicured grounds. It’s a strange contrast, this tranquil place surrounded by the tension of the city, a place that feels like it’s far removed from the chaos of Zaun. Sevika takes a deep breath, inhaling the sweet scent of the garden, but it does little to calm the storm brewing in her mind.

She had agreed to meet Mel again. Part of her isn’t sure why. There’s a strange pull to the woman, an unspoken understanding that keeps drawing her in, even though she doesn’t trust Mel completely. 

Sevika knows better than to trust anyone in a position of power, especially someone like Mel. But the offer she made, the hint of an alliance, lingers in her mind. Maybe it’s something to consider—after all, it’s not like she’s got many options.

There’s more at stake now. Her operation to smuggle supplies to the Firelights is more than just a mission. It’s become a lifeline for Zaun, a necessary risk. And she knows that Mel can’t know about it—at least not yet. She can’t expose her plans or the weak spots she’s discovered in Piltover’s hold over the undercity. 

That’s not something she can discuss with someone like Mel, not unless she’s sure of where they stand.

She wonders if Mel would understand the necessity of Zaun’s fight. She’s not some naive idealist. Sevika knows that even the most well-meaning people can’t see the reality of life in the undercity unless they’ve lived it. 

And Mel, despite her charms and well-crafted diplomacy, is still a product of Piltover—of a world that sees people like Sevika as tools, not allies.

The sound of footsteps approaching snaps Sevika from her thoughts. She turns to see Mel emerging from the shadows, her silhouette sleek and composed. There’s something almost disarming about how she moves, a grace in her step that makes her seem less like a politician and more like someone who’s comfortable in her own skin. 

Sevika doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s always been a little fascinated by that.

Mel stops a few feet away from her, her eyes locking with Sevika’s. She offers a slight, knowing smile, the kind that hints at a thousand unspoken things. “I see you’ve been thinking about our last conversation.”

Sevika doesn’t respond right away, just tilts her head slightly. “I don’t know what you want from me, Mel.”

Mel steps closer, her voice soft but firm. “I think you do. I’m offering you a chance to work with me, to reshape the future of Zaun. You’ve seen how this city works, or rather, doesn’t work. Piltover is choking it, and it’s only a matter of time before it suffocates. You know that as well as I do.”

Sevika’s gaze hardens, but she doesn’t flinch. “I’m not a politician. I don’t play the same games you do.”

Mel’s lips curl into a small smile, not mocking, but acknowledging. “Neither am I. Not really. But sometimes, you need to use the game to win.”

Sevika watches her for a moment, trying to gauge her. “What kind of game are we talking about?”

Mel gestures vaguely, her eyes sweeping the garden. “There’s power in shaping things, Sevika. Power in controlling what others don’t see. You’re already making moves in Zaun, gathering support, gaining influence. But you’re only scratching the surface. What if you had more? What if you had a way to make your operations safer, more effective?”

Sevika studies her for a moment, considering. She wonders if Mel really understands the risks, the stakes. If she has any idea what it means to live in a place like Zaun, to fight for survival every day. 

There’s a coldness in Sevika’s heart, a wariness that keeps her from fully trusting her words. But there’s also something in Mel’s eyes, something she’s not sure she can ignore.

“Let’s say I’m interested,” Sevika says, her voice low but steady. “What’s the plan?”

Mel’s lips curl into a smile. “It’s simple, really. You keep doing what you’re doing, making the moves that matter. But I help you. I give you the resources to expand your reach, to get better supplies, more support. You don’t have to rely on scraps or sneak in through the back door anymore. You’ll have the kind of leverage that Piltover can’t ignore.”

Sevika doesn’t reply immediately, her mind racing through the possibilities. It sounds good on paper—too good, maybe. She’s been burned before, too many times to count, by people promising power only to strip it away when they don’t need her anymore.

But this is different, she tells herself. Mel isn’t like the others. Or maybe she is. Sevika doesn’t know, but for the first time in a long while, she’s willing to consider it.

“And what’s in it for you?” She asks, narrowing her eyes, her fingers curling around her forearms.

Mel’s smile fades slightly, but there’s still something there—something that speaks of ambition and quiet power. “What’s in it for me is simple. I want to change the way Piltover and Zaun interact. I want to create something lasting, something that can survive beyond this war.”

Sevika’s gaze sharpens. “The confidence you have in yourself is mindblowing.”

Mel chuckles, allowing her head to roll onto her shoulder, but she doesn’t back down. “I can’t change it alone, of course. That would be somewhat of an irrational belief. But together, we can make them listen, don’t you think?”

Sevika stands there, taking it all in. The offer is tempting, more tempting than she cares to admit. 

“Alright,” she says, crossing her arms in one swift motion. “We’ll see what happens. But I’m not making any promises.”

Mel’s smile returns, faint but genuine. “That’s all I can ask for.”

The garden, with its moonlit pathways and the soft, rhythmic rustling of leaves, seems to close in around them, cocooning them in its quiet. Each step on the gravel feels like a whispered promise, the cool air carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. It’s strange—how the world beyond the gates seems to vanish, as though this small, secretive meeting exists in its own suspended time. 

The weight of their conversation lingers in the space between them, yet it feels softer here, as if the garden itself holds them, safe and hidden, from the chaos outside.

Sevika shifts her weight, her gaze flickering between Mel’s eyes and the trees’ shadows. There’s a faint tension in the way Mel holds herself, a subtle, calculated ease. It feels like they’re dancing around something more than just an offer, but Sevika can’t quite place it. 

“So,” Mel begins, her smile smooth and almost teasing. “How would you like to start this? What’s your vision for Zaun’s future?”

“I don’t want people to mess around anymore,” Sevika says slowly, her voice low, but deliberate. “I don’t want the politics, the compromises. I want a way to get things done, not wait for favors.”

Mel’s lips curve into a small, knowing thing. “I think you’re right. But sometimes, you need to understand the rules in order to bend them. You need to know how to move the pieces, to make the right decisions at the right time.”

Sevika meets her gaze, watching the way her face twists and curls, her expression unreadable. “You think you can teach me how to play those games?”

Mel’s eyes glitter with something that’s part amusement, part something else—something far more layered. “Oh, I think you already know how to play. You just need to learn how to do it better. To control the rules, rather than let them control you.”

Sevika raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “And you think you’re the one to teach me that?”

The way Mel steps closer, her voice a little softer now, a little more enticing, catches Sevika off guard. “Maybe I am. Sometimes it’s about taking the time to really understand the pieces—and how to move them without anyone noticing.”

Sevika’s breath catches, but she doesn’t show it. She knows where this is heading, but she’s not sure if it’s a game they’re both playing or if Mel has some kind of agenda she’s not seeing yet.

“Private lessons?” Sevika says, her voice flat. She pulls her dagger from its sheath, the blade catching the moonlight as she twirls it between her fingers. The rhythmic motion is a distraction, her gaze focused elsewhere, though her mind is far from the simple task at hand. 

The cool steel feels familiar in her grip, a comfort and a warning all at once, as if it anchors her in this moment where everything else feels uncertain.

Mel tilts her head, her gaze never leaving her. “Something like that. A bit of time, just the two of us, to go over the finer points of strategy. We both know there’s more to it than just brute force, Sevika. Sometimes, it’s about the subtleties, and the things most people miss.”

Sevika chuckles, the sound low and almost skeptical. “Is that what I need? Subtlety?”

Mel doesn’t hesitate. “Everyone needs subtlety. Even you. You don’t have to let the world know what you’re thinking.”

The silence stretches between them, heavy with the weight of things neither of them says. Sevika watches Mel closely, her thoughts a whirlwind, trying to make sense of the shift in the air. 

This wasn’t what she’d expected—not this tension, not this uncertainty. She had come here ready for business, for plans and next moves, but now everything feels off-balance, as if the roles they’ve played for so long are beginning to blur. The lines between them, once so clear, are starting to fray, and Sevika can’t tell if that’s something she should be worried about—or if it’s already too late to pull back.

“I didn’t take you for the type to offer ‘lessons’,” Sevika says, and it hangs in the air, thick and unresolved, like a thread she’s unsure whether to pull on or leave dangling. 

Whatever it is, it pulls at something inside her, leaving her momentarily off guard, as though the conversation has shifted into unfamiliar territory.

Mel steps even closer, her gaze now intense and searching. “What type am I, then?”

“I don’t know,” Sevika whispers, the words barely audible, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile tension between them. The unspoken emotions in her voice seem to hang in the air, impossible to ignore, even if neither of them dares to fully acknowledge them. “But I’m starting to wonder if this is about more than just an alliance.”

Mel’s lips curl into a small, almost dangerous smile. “It’s mostly about finding out just how much power we could have—if we’re willing to let go of the things that hold us back.”

Sevika feels the weight of Mel’s words, the implication lingering in the air between them. She’s not sure what Mel is after, but she’s not stupid—she can feel the undercurrent, the flirtation hanging thick around them. 

And it’s not just that. It’s the way Mel speaks, with such quiet confidence, as though she knows exactly what she’s doing.

Sevika takes a deep breath, her thoughts still a little clouded. “And what exactly would you expect in return for these ‘lessons’?” 

Mel doesn’t falter. “What I expect is simple. You learn how to play the rules—my way. And I get the satisfaction of finally changing this godforsaken place.”

For a moment, Sevika says nothing. Her heart pounds in her chest, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts. She doesn’t trust Mel completely, not yet. The fact that there is something so magnetic about this woman, something that keeps pulling her in, even if it’s dangerous, doesn’t soothe her one bit.

Her gaze lingers on Mel, tracing the subtle details she can’t seem to look away from. The soft shimmer of gold freckles across her skin that catches the moonlight, and the way Mel’s eyes narrow slightly, like she’s always assessing, always calculating. 

Then, there’s the way she licks her lips, a small, almost unconscious movement that seems to speak volumes—yet Sevika isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or a challenge. Every tiny gesture pulls her in, leaving her caught between curiosity and caution.

They stand at the edge of the garden, cool night air brushing against skin. Sevika’s mind spins with the weight of the conversation, the delicate balance of power shifting in the silence between them. 

She can see the light glistening off the leaves, a stark contrast to the tension building in the air. She thought she had come here to talk strategy, to find a way to push back against Piltover’s interference and secure Zaun’s independence, but all she feels now is a strange sense of ease.

“Fine,” she sighs, her heart still thumping in her chest. “I’ll think about it. I’ll consider your… offer. But don’t expect anything else from me, Medarda.”

Mel tilts her head, the corners of her lips curving up slightly in a smile that feels both amused and knowing. “Medarda, huh?” she muses, as though she’s savoring the word. “I see how it is.”

Sevika stands her ground, meeting her gaze without flinching, though she can feel the subtle shift in the air.

Mel steps forward, her movements graceful, like she’s carefully considering each step. She stops just a few paces away, the gap between them minimal, but the distance between their intentions feels far greater. 

“I’m not Medarda to you,” she says, her voice soft but commanding, “I’m Mel. And if you’re going to be part of this—if we’re going to make any kind of deal—you start by calling me that. None of this ‘Medarda’ nonsense.”

Sevika feels a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe, or respect? She’s not sure. But there’s something in the way she talks to her, the directness of it, that reminds her of someone else. Someone who wouldn’t waste time with formalities or pretense.

“So,” Sevika says slowly, her tone a little more testing, “what’s the first lesson, then, Mel?”

Mel doesn’t hesitate, her eyes locking with Sevika’s. “You take back control, Sevika. You stop playing the victim, stop letting them dictate your moves. You stand tall, demand what you’re worth. You start by calling the shots, and not just in the shadows. Take the authority back, and show them you’re not someone to be underestimated.”

Sevika doesn’t need to stand tall—she’s been doing it her whole life, wearing it like armor. But Mel isn’t offering the usual quiet guidance; now, she’s demanding, her words sharp and expectant. The shift is subtle, but Sevika feels it—like a jolt running beneath her skin, a pulse of something unfamiliar. 

It’s not just the challenge, though; there’s something else, a kind of euphoria, a spark she hasn’t felt in a long time, and it both unnerves and excites her all at once.

“Alright,” she mutters after a moment, her voice firm. “You’ve got it. Consider it done.”

Mel’s smile widens, satisfied. “Good. Once you are ready, we’ll talk about the next lesson.”

Sevika nods, the movement feeling out of place, like she’s trying to ground herself in a moment that’s slipping through her fingers. She stands there, a little off-balance, her gaze still locked on Mel, unable to tear herself away. 

The tension in the air presses against her chest, and the urge for something to dull it—the burn of hard liquor—is almost overwhelming. Instead, she reaches into her pocket for a cigarette, the motion automatic, her fingers trembling just slightly as she brings it to her lips. She doesn’t light it yet, just holds it there, as if stalling for a breath, for clarity.

“Not next to the flowers.” Mel’s voice cuts through the quiet, rather sharp, but not exactly disapproving. 

The words hit Sevika like a small, unexpected jolt, but she doesn’t pause. Without looking back, she strides away, the flick of her lighter catching the night air as she ignites the cigarette. 

The first inhale is steady, grounding, and she exhales slowly, letting the smoke curl up into the cool night. The tension doesn’t dissipate, but for a moment, it’s hers to hold.