Chapter 3
The silence of the chambers feels heavier than usual, pressing in like the closing of a trap. The candlelight flickers low, casting amber ribbons along the silk drapery, gilding the edges of the marble columns, the carved wood of her writing desk. Rain taps softly against the windowpanes, a quiet percussion that should be soothing but only seems to sharpen her awareness of the stillness in the room.
Mel sits at the edge of her velvet chaise, posture poised yet strangely restless. An empty plate rests forgotten on the table before her, untouched save for the way her fingers drift to the edges every so often, circling them absently as though testing her own restraint.
She hasn’t taken a bite. Not since she received it. Not since she made the choice to wait.
Sevika isn’t late—Mel hadn’t specified a time when she extended the invitation. The words had been measured, carefully chosen as always: If you’d like to speak further, my door will be open. An offer, not a demand. A risk. She hadn’t expected a reply, not immediately. Perhaps not at all.
And yet here she sits, listening for footsteps beyond the door.
It would be easy to dismiss the tension coiling in her stomach as impatience. She’s not used to being the one kept waiting—patience, in her world, is a tool, not a state of being. Delay means control. Hesitation means power slipping through your fingers. And yet now, with the long shadows pooling at her feet and the rain muffling the heartbeat of the city outside, this waiting feels different. Less calculated. More vulnerable.
Because it’s her. Sevika. Blunt. Hard-edged. Impossible.
Mel hadn’t expected to be drawn in like this, hadn’t expected the fierce, guarded woman from the undercity to linger in her mind the way she does. But there’s something about the way Sevika carries herself, the way her silences speak louder than her words.
The way her loyalty runs so deep it can border on self-destruction. And beneath all that—buried so carefully Mel sometimes wonders if she imagined it—is that rare flicker of hope, a spark so fragile it makes her feel as though every word spoken between them must be measured to avoid extinguishing it completely.
Mel exhales softly, gaze drifting toward the door again, the weight of doubt pressing heavier now. Was this too much? Did she overestimate what trust Sevika was capable of? The woman has been betrayed before—by those she followed, those she trusted with her life.
And while her offer had been genuine, she knows all too well how sincerity can be twisted into manipulation. She’s done that herself.
She stands suddenly, like she’s trying to shake off the creeping vulnerability tightening her throat. Her hands smooth over the fabric of her dress, the deep violet silk catching the candlelight in shimmering waves.
Unnecessary, because Sevika won’t notice the details. Or perhaps Mel wants her to. Wants her to see the effort, the care behind this invitation. The truth of it.
A knock—firm, controlled.
Her breath catches, just for a heartbeat, as she crosses the room, her heels soft against the polished floor. She pauses just before reaching the door, hand lingering on the brass handle, drawing the moment out longer than necessary. As if steadying herself. Then, with a final breath, she opens it.
Sevika stands there, rain-soaked and defiant. The dampness clings to her—her cloak darkened, her hair plastered along her temples in uneven strands. She smells faintly of rain and damp stone, of something raw and real, so unlike the perfumed air inside the chamber.
And her expression—gods, her expression. Guarded, as always, but there’s something beneath it tonight. The tension in her shoulders, the way her gaze flickers away just slightly before returning, as if she’s already bracing for disappointment.
Mel says nothing at first. Neither does Sevika. The rain whispers against the glass behind them, the candle sputtering with the draft that follows Sevika’s entrance.
Mel steps aside, wordlessly, the door opening just enough for her to pass.
Sevika hesitates. Just for a beat—so subtle that most wouldn’t notice. But Mel does. She sees the way Sevika’s gaze flickers, the brief shift from her face to the room beyond, assessing. Calculating. And then, as though deciding not to give herself the luxury of reconsidering, she steps inside.
The quiet feels heavier now, thick with everything unsaid. Sevika stands there, soaked and grim-faced, the rainwater still clinging to the edges of her cloak, dripping quietly onto the marble floor.
She doesn’t remove it. Doesn’t move beyond those first few steps, like she’s unsure whether she’s meant to. Her presence feels too large for the space somehow, like she’s bracing herself to be told to leave.
Mel doesn’t. Instead, she watches—measuring the tension in Sevika’s jaw, the tightness in her shoulders, the way her hands remain clenched at her sides.
She turns away first, crossing the room with the same deliberate grace as before, as if offering her retreat as proof she won’t press, won’t demand. She reaches for the plate she abandoned earlier, finally taking a bite, her gaze drifting back to Sevika from over the fork.
She sets the fork down carefully. “You came.”
Sevika exhales, sharp and quiet, like she’s only just now letting herself breathe. “You asked.”
Mel inclines her head slightly, a silent acknowledgment. She steps closer, slow enough that Sevika can see her coming, enough space left between them not to be threatening. “I didn’t expect you to.”
A muscle tics in Sevika’s jaw. Her gaze is steady but guarded, the tension coiling tighter. “Neither did I.”
The honesty in those words—gruff, unpolished—catches Mel off guard for a moment. But she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she nods toward the edge of the bed by the window, the rain streaking faint patterns across the glass behind it. “Sit, if you’d like.”
Sevika doesn’t move.
Her eyes narrow, searching Mel’s face like she’s trying to pick apart the layers of her calm.
And then, finally, her shoulders shift—just barely easing—and she steps further into the room. She doesn’t sit, not yet, but she removes her soaked cloak, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. Beneath it, her shirt clings slightly to her frame, damp but not enough to be uncomfortable.
She looks somewhat weary. Not just physically, but in the way she holds herself, as though waiting for whatever price Mel will demand for this meeting.
Mel clasps her hands together in front of her, her expression calm but unmistakably deliberate as she watches Sevika. The dim lantern light flickers gently across the chamber walls, but the tension between them feels heavier than the shadows cast. She stands tall, poised, every movement controlled as if carefully measured for impact.
Sevika, on the other hand, remains tense where she stands, shoulders squared, fists clenched at her sides—resisting. Guarded. Always.
“Sit, Sevika,” Mel repeats, voice calm but leaving no room for argument. She gestures toward the same edge of the bed, the silk sheets smooth and undisturbed, catching the dim light in pale ripples.
Sevika doesn’t move at first, only narrowing her eyes as if searching for the angle, the threat hidden beneath the command. But Mel holds her gaze, patient yet unrelenting, until the silence itself becomes the pressure.
Sevika exhales sharply through her nose, jaw tightening, but she obeys. She lowers herself onto the bed with a controlled stiffness, the mattress barely dipping beneath her weight. Her arms remain crossed over her chest, every line of her body drawn tight, as if expecting a confrontation she’s prepared to meet head-on.
Mel remains standing, deliberately positioning herself just above eye level, gaze calm but unwavering. Her hands remain loosely clasped at her waist as she studies Sevika, the tension in her broad shoulders, the way her fists flex ever so slightly against her legs.
“This isn’t a test,” her voice remains soft but steady, measured in a way that demands attention without raising in volume. “I’m not here to control you. I’m here to teach you.”
Sevika’s eyes narrow, suspicious. “Teach me what, exactly?”
Mel tilts her head, a faint smile touching her lips—just enough to be unreadable, to keep Sevika guessing. “Patience.”
The word lands like a challenge.
Sevika shifts, her jaw tightening as she watches Mel pace a slow half-circle around her. The sound of her heels against the floor is the only break in the silence, a deliberate rhythm.
“Trust,” Mel continues, voice just above a whisper now. She moves closer, finally stopping directly in front of Sevika, close enough that the scent of her perfume lingers—soft, warm, but not overpowering.
“You can keep sitting there, scowling at me, if you want,” she begins, her words careful, precise. “Or you can listen. Really listen. Because I’m not here to play games with you.”
A beat passes. Sevika holds her stare, lips pressed into a hard line, but something flickers beneath the defiance. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the simple fact that Mel isn’t the type of person you ignore.
Satisfied she has her attention, Mel continues.
“I know why you’re like this.” She tilts her head slightly, voice lowering, becoming more intimate. “You’ve been let down. Betrayed. Too many times to count, haven’t you? People who made promises, people who talked about loyalty—and they all turned on you the moment it suited them.”
Sevika’s jaw clenches, the muscle jumping. She says nothing, but the tension in her shoulders speaks volumes.
“I’m not here to tell you that pain wasn’t real,” Mel continues, her gaze unwavering. “Or that you shouldn’t protect yourself. But you’ve mistaken distrust for strength. And it’s holding you back.”
Sevika snorts softly under her breath, the sound bitter. “And what do you think I should do instead? Walk around blind?”
Mel’s eyes narrow, but there’s no flash of anger, only something far more dangerous—an unwavering certainty. She steps closer, measured, until she’s standing just before Sevika.
“No,” she says quietly, voice like silk drawn tight. “You walk into every room knowing exactly what they want from you. You learn their motives. Their weaknesses. And then—then—you let them think they’ve earned a piece of your trust.”
Sevika shifts, shoulders still stiff, but there’s a crack in her defiance. She doesn’t break eye contact, but Mel can see the wheels turning behind her eyes, the way her breath slows, controlled but listening.
“That isn’t trust. It’s control,” Mel continues, her voice soft but cutting. “You think keeping people at arm’s length makes you stronger, but it only makes you predictable. You expect betrayal, so you react—like you always have. Waiting for the knife in your back when you should be controlling who gets close enough to draw it.”
Sevika’s lips part as if to argue, but nothing comes out. Because she knows Mel is right. It stings, but there’s truth in it, and Mel can see that realization settling in.
She doesn’t press, not yet. She allows the silence to stretch, lets Sevika feel the weight of it. Only then does she step even closer, close enough that the faint scent of jasmine lingers between them. Her voice lowers further, quieter now.
“You’ve survived this long by bracing for the worst. And it’s kept you alive. I won’t insult you by denying that,” she says, adjusting her clothes. “But survival isn’t Power. Power is being the one who decides who gets close. Who earns a place at your side. And who never even gets the chance.”
The words linger, sinking in. Sevika’s gaze finally drops, not in defeat, but consideration. Her hands have loosened slightly where they rest on her thighs, no longer white-knuckled.
Mel steps back, letting the space between them settle, giving Sevika the time she needs to process. And in that silence, she knows, feels, that she’s shifted something. Not broken through, not quite, but the crack has started.
She watches Sevika closely, reading the tension in her jaw, the flicker of resistance still lingering behind her eyes. It’s progress, but not enough. She steps back, folding her arms in a way that seems relaxed, but there’s a calculated air to it—like she’s choosing her words as carefully as the moves on a strategy board.
“You think you’re the only one who’s had to play defense your entire life?” She makes sure the edge lays beneath her voice, quiet steel. “Let me tell you a story.”
Sevika doesn’t answer, but her gaze sharpens, watching.
“It was my first negotiation in Piltover. I was much younger, just barely considered an adult by our standards back home. And I was sent to speak with counselor Shoola.” Mel’s lips quirk, almost wry, though the memory seems far from pleasant.
“A woman who could dismantle entire trade alliances with a single conversation. She was relentless—always composed, always in control. And when I walked into that room, I thought I was prepared. I’d studied her policies. Her tactics. Her weaknesses, or so I thought. I was certain I could predict her every move.”
She pauses, her gaze distant for just a breath. “I treated it like a fight. Like the battles I’d grown up watching—strike first, strike hard, force your opponent to react before they had a chance to think.”
Sevika huffs quietly, the faintest trace of a smirk ghosting her lips. “Sounds familiar.”
Mel gives her a look. “But that’s where I was wrong,” she continues, voice lowering. “Shoola didn’t fight back. Not directly. She didn’t meet my aggression with her own. She anticipated me. Let me come at her full force—talk too much, reveal too much. She let me think I was winning, let me feel like I was pressing her into a corner. And then, when I’d run out of points to make, when my confidence had worn thin—she dismantled everything.”
Sevika’s brow furrows, silent but clearly following. Mel’s voice softens further, gaze fixed on her like she’s peeling back something carefully guarded. “She didn’t need to outmatch me. She just needed to let me exhaust myself. Let me expose all my defenses. And when I was left unguarded, that’s when she struck.”
A beat passes before Sevika breaks the silence again, voice rough but thoughtful. “So you lost.”
“Yes,” Mel admits without hesitation, but her lips curl into something sharper, more knowing. “And then I learned. I stopped using every conversation like a weapon. I stopped assuming my strength came from hitting harder or faster. Strength is knowing when to hold back. When to let them reveal themselves first. When to be quiet—and dangerous in that silence.”
Sevika leans back slightly, her arms uncrossing, considering. But her expression stays guarded, though softer now, less combative. “So I should just sit there and let people take shots at me.”
Mel tilts her head, stepping closer once more—but there’s no challenge in her stance this time, only certainty. “I’m saying stop giving them the satisfaction of knowing where to strike. Let them think they’ve figured you out. Then watch as they tear themselves apart trying to find the real you.”
She watches Sevika’s silence stretch, the gears clearly turning behind her eyes, but she doesn’t insist. Instead, she lets it linger just long enough for the tension to settle before speaking again.
“Tell me something, Sevika.” Her voice is firmer now, with a deliberate weight behind it, drawing Sevika’s attention back to her. “What’s your style of fighting? How do you approach a battle?”
Sevika blinks, as if caught off guard by the shift in conversation. Her jaw works for a moment before she answers, voice low and matter-of-fact. “I hit hard enough they don’t get back up. Then I let myself do whatever comes to mind with them.”
Mel nods slowly, as though filing the response away. “Efficient, isn’t it?” She pauses, tilting her head. “Predictable?”
Sevika’s eyes narrow slightly. “It works.”
“I’m sure it does.” Mel steps closer, circling slightly as if studying her. “But you know, when I asked Shoola about you once—she compared you to a hammer. Brutal, but…” She lets the word hang, waiting for Sevika’s attention to sharpen.
“But?” Sevika challenges, arms folding tight across her chest.
Mel meets her gaze without flinching. “But what happens when someone learns how to avoid the swing? Or worse—when they realize all they need to do is let you burn yourself out?”
Sevika’s expression darkens, her mouth pressing into a hard line. She can see the spark of resistance there, but also something quieter—thoughtful.
“You think I’m reckless.” Sevika says dryly.
“No,” Mel answers. “I think you’re powerful. But predictable power? That’s just as dangerous to you as it is to your enemies. You put everything out in the open—your strength, your intentions, your pain. You lead with it. And when you do that, you’re giving people a map of where to strike back.”
Sevika’s hand flexes at her side, as if resisting the urge to ball into a fist. Her gaze drops for just a breath before she meets Mel’s eyes again. “Is that all it is, then? All words and mind games?”
Mel gives a small, almost amused smile. “You should fight like yourself. But you learn to make them wonder what your next move will be. Sounds reasonable, no?”
She presses just a little further, voice softening again. “I’m not asking to mold you after myself. I’m asking you to see that there are ways to protect yourself that don’t involve striking first. Ways to be stronger than they expect.”
She watches Sevika closely, noting the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flicker between wariness and thought. It’s a familiar look—one she’s seen in herself countless times. That quiet resistance, the instinct to shut down before anything has the chance to take root. She knows Sevika’s history, the scars that have shaped her into the woman she is now, and that’s why she’s patient.
When Sevika finally speaks, her voice hesitant, almost reluctant, it carries the weight of someone who’s been pushed past their limit one too many times. “I get what you’re saying… but I don’t even know how to start.”
Mel can’t help but let out a soft laugh at that, the sound lighter than the usual steely edge to her voice. It’s not mocking, not dismissive, just a quiet recognition that, for all her strength and control, Sevika is still very much figuring this out.
It’s that same silent struggle that had kept Mel in check when she first started in this world—caught between wanting to break free and fearing what that might mean.
She leans back, arms crossed loosely over her chest, considering Sevika’s words for a moment. “You don’t have to know everything right now,” Mel says with a calm that only comes from experience. “No one does. The trick is learning how to begin without needing the whole picture right away.”
Sevika looks at her, her eyes sharpening. “Unlike you, I can’t act like I’ve got it all together.”
Mel doesn’t flinch at the edge in her tone. She’s used to it—Sevika’s defensiveness is as much a part of her as the tattoos etched on her skin. Mel’s smile is small but knowing. “I think you’ll learn how to fake it well enough that no one will know the difference. The trick is, you’ve got to control yourself first, before you even think about controlling anyone else.”
Sevika frowns, her skepticism mounting. “Control myself?”
Mel uncrosses her arms, moving to stand a little closer, her voice lowering in emphasis. “Yes. Because as much as you might want to dive straight into dominating a room, the first thing you have to do is learn how to master your own instincts. That’s where your strength lies, Sevika. In your ability to stay composed, to control the impulse to lash out when you feel cornered, or like you’re losing ground.”
She steps back, giving Sevika some space, but her eyes never leave her. “I’ve seen you fight. And I’ve seen how quickly you react, how quick you are to jump into the fray. But diplomacy isn’t a physical fight. It’s a game of patience, observation. If you don’t keep your cool, if you don’t let go of the reflex to just hit back when you’re provoked, you’ll lose before you even have a chance.”
Mel continues, sensing the resistance but also the curiosity underneath it. “You have the skills. No one’s questioning that. But you’re not in the ring anymore. You’re not fighting just for survival. You’re fighting for control—control over your emotions, your reactions, your choices. And once you have that, the rest falls into place.”
Sevika finally speaks again, her voice a little less defensive now, more thoughtful. “And you think I can do that?”
Mel’s response is calm, but firm. “I know you can.”
There’s a pause, and then Sevika exhales sharply. “I’ve never… I’ve never had to learn how to not fight. How to just sit back and let someone else make their move first.”
Mel lets out a soft laugh, a touch of warmth in her voice. “That’s why we’re going to practice. We’ll start small, with situations where you won’t feel the need to fight right away. And slowly, you’ll learn how to sit back, listen, and feel the situation out before jumping in.”
Sevika glances at her with a look that borders on disbelief.
Mel shrugs, the movement casual but with a seriousness underneath it. “You’ll practice controlling yourself. And when you’ve got that down, we’ll start working on the rest. You’ll learn how to control the situation, control them, by giving the appearance that you have it all under control. They’ll never even see the real fight you’re waging.”
Sevika looks skeptical, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes—a spark of recognition, maybe even understanding. “Are they even going to believe it?”
Mel nods slowly, her gaze unwavering. “Yes. They’re not as serious as they like to pretend. They’ll want to believe you have it all figured out. And the moment you give them that, they’ll follow you.”
Sevika remains silent, her brow furrowing as she processes her words. Finally, she starts again, her voice quieter this time. “So how do we start practicing?”
Mel smiles, the expression softening but still filled with purpose. “We’ll start by arguing with each other. And eventually, you’ll have to take that into the council room.”
She steps back, her expression shifting from patient understanding to one of quiet authority. “Now, Sevika,” she says, her tone sharpening slightly, “I want you to think about our conversation in the garden. Everything I told you—how I spoke to you, how I guided the conversation. How did I handle it?” She pauses, letting the question sink in. “Dissect it for me. Break it down. What did I do that made that conversation work?”
Sevika looks at her, brows furrowing as she processes the question. She opens her mouth to speak, then hesitates, clearly grappling with the layers beneath what seemed like a simple exchange. Finally, she starts slowly, picking her words carefully.
“Well, you let me have the choice to come, right?” she says, the words coming a little slower than usual. “You didn’t force me into the conversation. You gave me that space to make the decision for myself.”
Mel nods, her gaze focused but gentle. “Yes, because it’s about giving someone the feeling of control. Letting them think they’re in charge when, really, you’ve already set the terms.”
Sevika looks down at her hands for a moment, then continues, her voice quieter now. “And you opened up about your mother. You didn’t have to, but you chose to. That made me, I don’t know. It made me feel like you were letting me in, letting me see something of you that was real.”
Mel smiles faintly, appreciating her insight, but she presses further. “You think I just chose to open up about that?”
Sevika looks up, confusion flickering across her face. “Well, yeah, I thought it was your decision.”
Mel lets that hang in the air for a moment, then leans forward slightly, her eyes sharp. “That’s where you’re wrong. It wasn’t a decision, at least not in the way you’re thinking. It was a calculated move. I gave you a glimpse of vulnerability. I let you believe that it was a choice, that I was giving you something. But in reality, I controlled exactly what I shared, how I shared it, and why.”
Sevika’s expression shifts, the gears turning as she starts to understand. “So… you let me think you were being vulnerable, but you controlled how much you showed me.”
Mel nods. “Exactly. I allowed you to see a piece of me, but I made sure it was something I was comfortable with. Something that wouldn’t put me in a position of weakness, but instead gave you enough of a glimpse into my past that you’d be intrigued, that you’d feel like you were getting something personal from me.”
Sevika’s eyes narrow, her mind clearly piecing everything together now. “And then you let me attack you with that information.”
Mel’s smile is small, almost satisfied. “I did. But it wasn’t just letting you attack. It was about controlling the narrative. I allowed you to think you had something over me. I didn’t defend myself, because by not defending myself, I created the illusion of vulnerability. And in doing so, I gave you room to make your own choices, to believe that you were gaining the upper hand.”
Sevika swallows, her voice low as she contemplates the depth of the situation. “You made me think I was in control, and then you used that to keep me in check.”
Mel’s eyes glint with a mix of pride and something more calculated. “Exactly. And you see how it works, don’t you? I gave you just enough to make you feel like you had power, but I never actually gave up any real control. I let you believe you were the one leading, but all along, I was guiding the conversation in the direction I wanted it to go.”
Sevika lets out a slow breath, almost like she’s just been hit with a realization. “So all of that was on purpose.”
Mel nods, her voice softening, but still steady. “Every move, every word, every piece of information I shared—it was all intentional. I made sure to reveal only what was necessary, and I knew exactly how to control the rhythm of the conversation. You didn’t just get to attack me with my own history. You thought you could, but I was already prepared for it.”
Sevika stares at her, her expression a mix of admiration and disbelief. “That’s—shit, that’s a hell of a game to play.”
Mel’s lips curve into a small, knowing smile. “It’s not a game. It’s strategy. And it’s one you’ll need to master if you want to make the kind of impact you’re capable of.”
Sevika falls silent for a moment, her eyes distant as she processes everything. “So, I need to learn how to do that. How to control the situation before I even step into it.”
Mel nods. “You’re getting it. It’s about knowing what to say, what to reveal, and when to hold something back. It’s about staying two steps ahead without anyone even realizing you’ve moved.”
Sevika seems lost in thought for a moment before she looks up, a new kind of determination in her eyes. “And you telling me your strategy, is another part of it?”
Mel’s lips curve into a knowing smile as Sevika’s words hit their mark. She can see the wheels turning in Sevika’s mind, the realization dawning that she’s been playing the same game. There’s a sharpness to her now, an edge that Mel recognizes—Sevika’s grasping the nuances of the strategy, understanding that even the reveal of the strategy itself is a calculated move.
“You’re quick,” she remarks, her tone light but with a trace of approval. “As I told you before, it’s about showing you how to make every word and action count, even the things that seem like they’re being given away.”
Sevika looks up, her expression one of quiet realization. “Even when you tell me the plan, it’s part of the plan?” she asks, a hint of disbelief in her voice.
Mel nods slowly, her gaze unwavering. “Everything is part of the plan. Even when you think you’ve seen the full picture, there’s always something more beneath the surface. It’s always about control—whether you’re giving the illusion of it or taking it for yourself.”
Sevika exhales sharply, her eyes narrowing slightly as she processes it all. “This is a lot more complicated than I thought.”
Mel chuckles softly, the sound almost like a purr. “It is. But it’s also what makes it effective. And you’ve got the instincts for it. You just need to trust that every move has a purpose—even the ones that seem like you’re giving something away.”
Sevika tilts her head, studying her with a more focused intensity. “If I’m the one pulling the strings, I don’t let anyone see my moves, even if they think they’re seeing them.”
“Yes,” Mel affirms, her voice low and steady. “You never let anyone see your full hand.”
Sevika lets out a quiet laugh, something almost cynical in her tone. “Oh, this is a game, alright.”
Mel’s smile widens, proud of the breakthrough. “you could say that. You’ll get better at it with time.”
Sevika smirks, a new sense of confidence in her eyes. “I’ll make sure they never see it coming.”
Mel regards her for a moment, then nods. She takes out two glasses, and sets them on the table. “I believe you.”
She moves to pour the wine carefully, the rich crimson liquid swirling as it fills Sevika’s glass. Her hand is steady, but there’s a slight tension behind the graceful movement. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something unspoken.
She knows how to navigate power. She’s been doing it her entire life. But this? This is more delicate. She needs Sevika at ease, just relaxed enough to lower her guard but not so much that she forgets what they’re building here.
Mel sets the bottle down, smoothing her hand over the stem of her own glass, considering her next words. Her gaze lingers on Sevika, searching. The tension in Sevika’s posture has eased slightly since their last exchange, but there’s still that quiet defiance in the way she holds herself—like she’s bracing for the next move.
Mel raises her glass halfway, then pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Would you prefer something stronger?” Her voice is warm, the offer calculated. A gesture of care, of attentiveness. But also, an invitation—an opening for Sevika to decide just how vulnerable she’s willing to be.
Sevika glances at the wine, then back to Mel, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. For a moment, she seems to weigh the question, and Mel wonders if it’s the drink she’s deciding on—or the trust it represents.
Finally, she huffs softly, the corner of her mouth twitching in something close to amusement. “Wine’s fine. But I’m starting to think you’re trying to get me to talk more than you already have.”
Mel allows a quiet, knowing smile. “And if I am?”
Sevika leans back just slightly, the tension shifting into something more playful, but still guarded. “Then you’ll have to try harder than a glass of wine.”
Mel lifts her glass in a toast, the crystal catching the light. “I’m nothing if not patient.”
They sip in silence for a moment, the air between them heavier than it should be. Mel feels it pressing at the edges of her control, a delicate balance she’s not entirely sure she wants to tip just yet. But she’s learning—so is Sevika. And that’s what matters.
She watches Sevika over the rim of her glass as she takes a slow, measured sip. The wine is rich, smooth, and lingers on her tongue, but she’s far more focused on her reaction than the taste.
Sevika turns the glass in her hand, examining it with a faintly skeptical squint, as if the elegance of it all still feels like a trick. She finally takes a sip, her brow lifting just slightly in surprise.
“Huh,” she mutters, swirling the glass again before taking another, more deliberate taste. “Topsiders’ wine is actually good. Who knew?”
Mel can’t help the soft laugh that escapes her, the sound more genuine than she intends. “It grows on you.” She tilts her head, watching her with that same sharp attentiveness. “Not everything refined has to be dull, you know.”
Sevika smirks, the tension in her shoulders softening just a fraction. “Could’ve fooled me with the council meetings.”
Mel hums thoughtfully, taking another sip. “They’re… an acquired taste. Like the wine. Though, I’m sure you’ll find your own way to make them more interesting soon enough.”
Sevika studies her for a long moment, silent, the wine untouched in her hand as the weight of those words settles between them. Mel holds her gaze, steady, patient—waiting for her to catch up to the truth she’s already seen in her.
She sets her glass down, the delicate clink barely audible in the quiet room. She leans back, studying Sevika with that same composed poise she always holds, but there’s something softer underneath tonight—something carefully offered.
“I have noticed,” Her voice is calm, but there’s no teasing edge, no coyness this time. She meets Sevika’s gaze head-on. “That you have this… certain idea about me. Perhaps that I’m simply another councilwoman playing diplomat in silk and gold.”
Sevika doesn’t deny it. She just lifts a brow, waiting for whatever Mel is building toward.
“I find it important for you to know that isn’t exactly true,” she breathes in, slow and deliberate, as if weighing how much to reveal. “I’m Noxian. I was raised in a place where strength is everything. Where you prove your worth not with words, but with action. With power. My mother—” She pauses for a heartbeat, her grip tightening slightly around the stem of her glass. “She believed weakness was unforgivable. That it had to be burned out before it could spread.”
Sevika watches her carefully now, the tension shifting—still wary, but more focused, as though she’s seeing Mel for the first time.
Mel’s lips press together, thoughtful. “You’d probably respect her. Or fear her. Maybe both.” Her gaze flickers, distant for a moment, before returning with quiet intensity. “I left that life behind when I came here. Or I tried to. But Noxus… it stays with you. It shapes you. And now…” She trails off, swirling the wine in her glass as she gathers her thoughts.
Sevika frowns slightly, as if puzzled by the sudden shift. “Now what?”
Mel lets out a soft breath. “Now, I wonder what’s left of it. Since her death.”
The words linger, heavier than she means them to. For once, she’s said more than she intended—more personal truth than calculated strategy. But she holds Sevika’s gaze, unflinching, waiting to see if she’s earned even a sliver of understanding.
Sevika says nothing at first. She just watches her, expression unreadable, before finally tipping her glass back for another sip.
“Damn,” she mutters under her breath, voice rough but quieter now. “So that’s where all the steel comes from.”
Mel tilts her head, lips curling into a faint, knowing smile. “I like to think I’ve learned the best from both worlds,” she says, voice softer now but no less certain. She raises her glass just slightly, as if toasting the thought. “Noxus taught me strength—what it means to survive when survival isn’t guaranteed. Piltover taught me how power can be shaped rather than seized.”
She takes a slow sip of her wine, then lowers the glass to the table beside her, fingers trailing from the stem with practiced grace. “It took me a long time to understand that.”
Sevika leans back slightly, watching her with that same guarded focus, though her grip on the glass has eased. “Right.”
Mel sets her glass down with a soft clink, the delicate sound grounding the conversation in something quieter, controlled. She folds her hands in her lap, fingers laced neatly, but her posture remains open, inviting. The balance between teacher and equal.
“A few weeks ago,” she begins, “you brought up the shortages in Zaun. The lack of essentials and basic dignity.”
Sevika’s shoulders tense, jaw tightening as the familiar frustration rises to the surface. Mel can almost feel it, the heat behind her silence, the way her hand grips the wine glass just a little too tightly, her mechanical fingers flexing with the strain.
She lets her sit with it. She waits, calm, until that energy simmers just enough to be useful. Only then does she continue. “I want you to think back to how you approached that conversation. What did you say?”
Sevika exhales sharply. “I told them the truth. Piltover has the resources. More than enough. But they hoard them, keep their hands clean while people starve because it’s easier to pretend they’re above it all.”
Mel tilts her head, studying her. “And how did they respond?”
Sevika’s lips press into a thin line. “They gave me platitudes. Talked in circles about ‘complicated supply chains’ and ‘ongoing evaluations.’ Like they were humoring me. Like Zaun’s dying was just… policy.”
Mel nods slowly, as if she’s absorbing the words, though she already knows them. Knows the script. “And why do you think they dismissed you like that?”
Sevika scoffs. “Because they don’t care.”
Mel allows the silence to stretch for just a beat longer before she speaks.
“Because you let them,” she corrects, gentle but unwavering. Sevika blinks, head jerking slightly as if the words were a slap. Mel leans forward just enough, holding her gaze without flinching. “You gave them the perfect excuse not to listen. You made it easy for them to see you as angry. Unreasonable. They’ve spent their entire lives justifying why they can ignore people like you. And you—”
She lifts a brow, not unkindly but pointed. “You let them play that game, as you like to call it.”
Sevika’s expression darkens, more defensive now. “I am angry,” she growls, voice low, guttural. “You think I’m just supposed to play nice while my people suffer?”
Mel exhales slowly, thoughtful. “I’m not telling you to be nice, Sevika. I’m telling you to be smarter than them.”
She pauses, reaching for her wine glass, but not drinking from it yet. Letting the moment breathe. Sevika watches her, the tension still there, but focused now—like she’s waiting for something.
“You said Piltover thrives on control,” she continues, voice softer now, measured but still sharp. “And you’re right. They want control of the narrative. So what happens when you shift it? When you stop giving them the chance to be magnanimous? When you force them to justify their inaction instead of your anger?”
Sevika stares at her. Then, more hesitant, “…You’re saying I should make them feel guilty?”
Mel shakes her head slowly, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips. “No. Guilt can be brushed aside. Rationalized. Accountability, however? When you present it the right way, it lingers. You want them backed into a corner where the only way out is doing what you need from them.”
Sevika narrows her eyes, skeptical. “And they’ll just fold?”
Mel’s smile widens, though there’s nothing soft about it now. “Not immediately. But they’re vain, Sevika. They crave the illusion of moral superiority. Use that. Offer them the chance to be seen as benevolent, as long as the outcome benefits Zaun. Make them think it’s their idea.”
Sevika looks away, scowling, her hand flexing again around the glass. Mel doesn’t press. She waits. Watches.
Mel sets her glass of wine down carefully, the soft clink against the wood deliberate. She meets Sevika’s gaze, the warmth from earlier cooling into something more calculated but still inviting, her posture poised yet open. She wasn’t just teaching now—this was a demonstration. A test.
“Let’s begin,” Mel says, voice calm but carrying authority. “I’ll play my part. You play yours.”
Sevika straightens a little, arms crossing loosely over her chest, her metal fingers tapping softly against her elbow as she waits.
Mel takes a breath, letting her expression shift as she slips into the role she knows best. Her voice smooths out, her gaze sharpening as she speaks like she’s already standing in the council chamber.
“Councilor,” she begins, carefully measured, the practiced lilt of power behind her words. “Piltover has long maintained economic stability through order and regulation. We cannot allow businesses—especially those from beyond the borders—to operate without proper oversight. If they refuse compliance, fines are the most reasonable form of consequence. Surely you can see how that benefits all parties involved.”
She lets the statement linger, studying Sevika as it settles.
Sevika’s brow furrows, the tension rising along her jaw. “So Piltover gets to decide what counts as compliance? And what, Zaun just has to take the hit when you change the rules?”
Mel tilts her head, a small, assessing smile forming—not mocking but leading. “I’m saying regulation ensures fairness. If businesses meet the standards set, they won’t face penalties. Surely a leader such as yourself understands the importance of maintaining stability in a functioning society?”
Sevika’s lips press together in a tight line. Mel can see the spark of irritation—the part of her that wants to fight back, to counter the pressure with force. But that’s not what this lesson was for.
She leans forward just slightly, voice softening. “Stop. Think it through. What am I doing right now?”
Sevika exhales, forcing herself to pull back, brow furrowed as she processes. “You’re… controlling the framing. You’re making it sound like we’re the problem before I’ve even had a chance to argue.”
Mel nods, pleased. “Exactly. I’m defining the terms. By the time you’re reacting, I’ve already shaped the conversation.”
Sevika’s eyes narrow, thoughtful now. Mel can practically see her shifting from defense to analysis. She straightens, continuing. “Now, apply what we’ve discussed. Control the terms. Tell me why my argument is flawed.”
Sevika leans forward, her voice rough but more focused. “You’re calling it fairness, but there’s nothing fair about a system where one side holds all the power. Zaun’s businesses don’t have the same resources you do. If Piltover actually cared about stability, you’d be offering resources—clean water, safer work environments—not threatening livelihoods with financial weapons.”
Mel’s smile widens, this time genuine. “Better. You’re reframing the narrative. But you’re still pushing too hard too soon—you’re giving me a fight. You need to make me question myself before I realize you’re challenging me. Try again. Make me think we’re on the same side.”
She watches it happen in real time, the tension building under Sevika’s skin, the way her metal fingers twitch against her knee, the muscle working in her jaw as she grows more frustrated. She’s leaning forward now, her words sharper, louder, but still circling the same flawed rhythm.
“You keep calling it regulation,” Sevika snaps, voice rough, heat rising behind her words. “But what you’re really saying is you want control. You’re bleeding us dry and calling it ‘fairness’—”
Mel says nothing. She sits back instead, expression serene, her wine glass untouched now. She watches. Listens. Allows Sevika to keep spiraling, repeating herself, pressing the same points harder as if volume and sheer force could crack her composure. It doesn’t.
“You can’t keep pretending this is about balance when Piltover profits off Zaun’s suffering—”
There it is. The breaking point. Mel catches it in the slight shake of Sevika’s voice, the crack not of weakness, but of anger unchecked, no longer calculated—wounded, personal.
Sevika stops herself, breathing hard, shoulders squared like she’s still preparing for a fight.
Mel waits a beat longer, letting the tension linger before finally, she speaks. “You’re giving too much away.”
The words cut the air like a blade, calm but deliberate, and Sevika blinks, the fire still there but flickering.
“What?”
Mel uncrosses her legs, rising smoothly from her seat. She doesn’t tower—she doesn’t need to. Power, after all, was never about height. It was control, elegance, the art of holding silence just long enough for it to sink in.
“You started well,” she says, circling her with careful, measured steps, her gaze never breaking from Sevika’s. “You had the right ideas, shifting the focus, appealing to emotion—but you lost sight of the goal. You let me see how angry you were.”
Sevika scowls. “Yeah? Because it pisses me off—”
“And I know that,” Mel cuts in, her voice sharp enough to make Sevika’s jaw snap shut. “Because you told me. You showed me your anger before you could use it. Now I have the advantage. I could turn that against you, paint you as emotional. Do you understand?”
Sevika’s fists clench in her lap. But she doesn’t argue.
Mel softens, stepping back just slightly. “I’m not telling you to stop feeling, Sevika. Anger has its’ place.”
Silence lingers between them, heavier now. Sevika’s breathing has slowed. The flush in her cheeks is fading. She’s listening.
“Try again,” Mel says quietly, returning to her seat. She lifts her glass, but this time, her smile is smaller. “You’re close.”
“Fuck this,” Sevika mutters, standing up and pacing to the other side of the room. Her voice is rough, thick with the words she’s been holding in since they started the conversation “This isn’t about emotions or being calm. It’s about survival. Every goddamn second of it. They keep squeezing us until we can’t breathe, then throw us a bone and call it ‘progress.’”
Her fist slams against the wall, and Mel watches, still silent, as Sevika fights to control her breathing. There’s no finesse to it. No strategy. Just raw emotion, spilling over in thick waves, but in some strange way, it’s a thing of beauty. A moment of realness.
Mel could step in, point out the error in Sevika’s approach, call her out on how she’s letting her anger rule her instead of focusing on the goal. But she doesn’t. She lets Sevika stew in it, watching with a mixture of patience and admiration.
“You’re right about one thing,” Sevika continues, her voice a low growl as she turns back to Mel. “Maybe my anger does make me predictable. Maybe it opens cracks they can dig into.”
Mel lets her speak until the anger is raw enough, and then, when the words start to lose their force, she lets the silence fill the room again. She’s not attempting to prove a point, not in this moment. She wants to see how far Sevika will push herself. How much she will give before she can see what Mel has been showing her all along.
Sevika exhales sharply, hands on her hips. “The truth is, they don’t care. They never will. But you need to understand something—anger drives Zaun. It fuels this city. Every clenched fist, every shattered bottle. It’s not pretty, but it’s what works for us.”
Mel swirls the wine glass in her fingers, watching her with sharp, steady eyes. “You’re right about a lot of things,” she says finally, her voice low. “But here’s the thing—you are playing a game. You’re just playing it with all your cards on the table. And they’ll read you like an open book every time.”
She sets the glass down and meets Sevika’s gaze, unblinking. “You’re showing them your anger. Letting them use it against you. And you think it’s all justified, but that’s where you’re wrong.”
Sevika’s jaw tightens, her breath shaky. “I don’t give a damn about their tricks, Mel.”
Mel smiles, her expression knowing, calm. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to lose every time.”
When Sevika answers, the words come fast, sharp. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t waste time with niceties. It’s pure, unfiltered conviction. And for a moment, Mel is caught off guard. She’s always known Sevika had potential, but this is something more.
“You want to keep manipulating people,” Sevika spits, leaning forward. “But when you use people like that, you lose them. You think the ends justify the means? You think throwing people into a fire for the sake of ‘peace’ makes you any better than the ones you claim to oppose?”
Mel feels a jolt run through her at the force of the words. She’s been on the receiving end of this kind of rhetoric before, from politicians who think they know what’s best, from ideologues who see the world in black and white. But Sevika’s delivery… it’s different. It’s personal. It stings.
She’d expected anger, of course—it had been bubbling under the surface ever since the conversation started, but seeing Sevika channel that fury into strategy was something else entirely. It wasn’t just the fire in her eyes, or the bite in her words; it was how quickly she adapted, how swiftly the anger became a tool rather than an obstacle.
Sevika is not just playing with the language; she’s stripping it of its layers, dismantling Mel’s carefully crafted arguments piece by piece. And it’s only when she starts breaking down her logic that Mel realizes just how good she’s getting at this.
Her brow furrows slightly, surprised at how fast she’s had to adjust. “You’re right,” she admits with a calmness she doesn’t quite feel. “I am trying to change how this city works, despite what you think of my methods”
Sevika’s eyes narrow further, not buying it for a second. “Change?” she scoffs. “By pretending their rules can save us?”
Mel hesitates for a fraction of a second before she counters, her voice smooth. “I’m not interested in burning everything down just to watch it burn, Sevika. I want something lasting.”
But even as the words leave her lips, she feels a shift. She feels the argument slipping through her fingers, as Sevika’s relentless push starts to expose the cracks in her own skin.
“No, you’re just too afraid to break it. You think the system can be fixed with just a little nudge,” Sevika continues, voice rising. “But we’re drowning in it, Mel. And the more you try to push us back into that mold, the more it’ll break us.”
And just like that, the words hit harder than Mel expects. The idea that maybe, just maybe, she’s been so focused on strategy, on making sure every piece falls into place, that she’s forgotten the people who are supposed to be at the heart of it all. Forgotten that the strategy she’s built is founded on the very systems that have been failing her—failing them all—since the beginning.
She tries to press on, to counter, but she stays uneasy. Maybe it’s the way Sevika’s words pull at her, a reminder of the difference between theory and reality. Maybe it’s the way the anger in Sevika’s voice feels real—like a storm too long held back.
“You’re wrong,” she says, quieter this time, but the words feel less certain. “But you’re also right. The system’s broken, and we’re all just trying to survive it.”
Sevika doesn’t back down. She continues to press, slicing through Mel’s defenses like she’s been doing it her whole life.
Her gaze sharpens as she leans forward, the words coming out in a low murmur but with a heat that is unmistakable. “I can use my anger as a tool, just as much as you can use your calm.” She smiles, a sharp glint in her eyes, the kind of smile that promises the storm of her will is just beginning to rise.
Mel watches her, leaning back, surprised at how easily she’s being outplayed. It’s a strange feeling, to be on the receiving end of this. But in the midst of the challenge, in the face of Sevika’s raw determination, something inside her stirs.
A sense of respect, perhaps, of potential. Sevika is breaking through her walls, and she doesn’t even realize it.
This is what Mel has been waiting for. Sevika has the mind for this, the fire, even if she doesn’t always know how to direct it. And Mel feels a rush of understanding—a quiet recognition that the fight isn’t just against the systems they’re working within. It’s with each other, too. Every time they push back, they’re testing the limits of their beliefs.
“If I don’t show my anger, it’ll fester in Zaun. It’ll turn into something so much worse,” Sevika continues, her tone lowering but carrying an intensity that demands attention. “Another wave of attacks, another life ruined, another girl with nothing left to lose, slipping past the edge just like Jinx did.”
She leans forward, her eyes locked onto Mel’s, challenging her to understand.
“You think anger is a weakness, that it clouds judgment,” Sevika almost smirks, a flicker of mockery in her expression. “You think my anger’s dangerous. But it’s much more dangerous when it’s someone who’s already broken, someone who doesn’t know how to hold back. That’s why I’m here.”
“That’s why I sit at that table, not to be fuckin’ diplomatic, not to make connections,” Sevika continues, the calmness returning to her voice but with an underlying conviction. “But because it’s far safer for Piltover if it’s me, not the ones who’ve already made violence their language.”
Mel’s mind races, quickly shifting, trying to analyze where she went wrong. This was supposed to be a lesson—a way to help Sevika grow, refine her strategies. Instead, Sevika has flipped the script entirely, forcing Mel to confront her own assumptions. For all her skill at playing the game of manipulation and negotiation, she hadn’t expected to be outplayed by the very anger she thought she could control.
For a brief moment, Mel is silent, caught off guard by the clarity in Sevika’s argument.
Her pulse quickens, the unexpected challenge igniting a flicker of something she hasn’t felt in a while—a recognition of the storm within Sevika, but now harnessed, measured, and far more dangerous than before.
“Ah,” she says slowly. “It seems you have outmatched me this time.”
Sevika gives her a look that’s almost amused, her lips curling into a small smile as she leans back in her seat, her posture shifting from the tense, almost rigid stance to something far more comfortable, yet still radiating an edge.
“Looks like it, huh?” she says, and the edge in her voice tells Mel that this exercise has only just begun.
They finish the wine in a tense, thoughtful silence. The sharp edges of the debate linger, though softened now by the shared quiet between them. Sevika leans back in her chair, the firelight casting long shadows over the scar across her face, the hard set of her jaw.
But there’s something else too—traces of something softer beneath the storm in her eyes. She’s thinking deeply about something. And Mel wonders if, perhaps, she’s gotten through just a little.
Mel watches her leave, the echo of her boots fading down the marble corridor, leaving the room quieter than it had felt all night. The wine glass lingers in her hand, the last traces of red curling along the crystal rim. She stares at it, letting the tension in her shoulders melt just a little—but her mind is far from at ease.
She hadn’t expected Sevika to catch on so quickly, let alone turn the strategy back on her. Mel had thought she was guiding the conversation, coaxing Sevika through the layers of restraint and power that she’d spent a lifetime mastering. But then Sevika had taken that control—let her think she was winning the argument—only to twist it, using the very anger Mel had tried to temper as proof of her point.
The worst part? She hadn’t been wrong.
Mel’s gaze shifts to where Sevika had been sitting just moments before, the empty glass still warm from where her fingers had curled around it. She could still feel the crackling energy from their exchange, the way Sevika’s voice had tightened with conviction.
The way, for a moment, Mel had felt the weight of those words—not as defiance, but as truth. That anger can be used. Sevika had proved it.
And yet, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought that lingered as she prepared for the night. She had let herself soften tonight—just enough. She’d spoken of her mother, her past, her doubts about Noxus. Vulnerabilities she rarely exposed, all offered in carefully measured doses meant to draw Sevika closer.
The candlelight flickers, casting shifting patterns on the walls as Mel traces her thumb over the edges of her clothes. She had achieved what she wanted, hadn’t she? Sevika was listening, learning. Trusting.
And yet, she finds herself wondering—who had truly learned more tonight?
With a quiet exhale, Mel slides underneath the covers and lets the silence settle in. The lesson was over, but this transaction occurring between them, she knows, is far from finished.