The Weight of Justice
Chapter 6: The Weight of Justice
The council chambers in Piltover buzzed with quiet murmurs, the gravity of the upcoming trial casting a heavy pall over the room. The vaulted ceilings, supported by columns of polished brass, gleamed faintly under the glow of crystal chandeliers. Intricate stained-glass windows, depicting Piltover’s technological achievements, fractured the incoming light into patterns that danced across the dark, polished table at the room’s center. Despite its grandeur, the chamber felt colder today, as though the weight of the moment had stripped it of its usual opulence.
At the head of the table sat Mel Medarda, exuding a commanding presence in a black and gold dress that shimmered subtly with each movement. The sharp, angular design of the gown mirrored her regal poise, while the deep gold accents caught the light, a reminder of her Noxian roots. Her back was straight, her chin held high, but her eyes betrayed the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface. She had faced countless political battles in this chamber, but none had felt as personal—or as heavy—as this one.
Beneath the layers of her composure, Mel could feel her magic thrumming just under her skin, like an unspoken current waiting to be unleashed. It wasn’t visible—no glowing energy or grand display—but it was there, humming with the same restless energy as her emotions. It reminded her of its presence, an intimate part of her she still didn’t fully understand but that seemed to respond to the turmoil in her heart. The sensation was both grounding and unnerving, a power she hadn’t dared to explore fully yet but one she could no longer ignore.
Beside her sat Ekko, the de facto leader of Zaun. His casual attire—a leather jacket adorned with faint green etchings and his ever-present goggles—clashed with the formality of the room. Yet, there was an undeniable strength in the way he carried himself, a confidence that defied the grandeur around him. His presence wasn’t just a reminder of Zaun’s resilience; it was a statement. Ekko embodied the hard-earned unity between Piltover and Zaun, a fragile but hopeful alliance forged in the aftermath of Vi’s capture. His youthful face, though still boyish in some ways, bore subtle lines of weariness, the weight of leadership etched into his features. Determination gleamed in his sharp eyes, tempered by the restraint of someone who had learned to choose his battles carefully. He adjusted the strap of his goggles—a small, grounding habit that betrayed the nerves he wouldn’t otherwise show.
Around them, Piltover’s council members sat stiffly in their ornate chairs, their expressions ranging from skepticism to discomfort. Some adjusted their clothes, the crisp rustle of fabric breaking the heavy silence, while others scribbled furiously on parchment, quills poised to record every detail of what was undoubtedly a historic trial. A few leaned forward, their gazes sharp and appraising, while others avoided Ekko’s eyes entirely, unwilling to meet the leader of Zaun’s unflinching confidence. The room buzzed with a subdued tension, thick and stifling, as the weight of the charges against Ambessa Medarda loomed over the proceedings.
Theft of the Hextech gemstone. Murder of several enforcers during the theft. Kidnapping of Violet, known simply as Vi. The charges were spoken aloud, their gravity hanging in the air like a stormcloud. And yet, to Mel, the words felt hollow—mere fragments of the truth. She glanced at the glowing brass agenda panel embedded in the table, her golden eyes lingering on the stark black lettering that summarized her mother’s crimes. Theft. Murder. Kidnapping. The words were damning enough, but they barely scratched the surface of Ambessa’s true impact. Each syllable felt like an insult to the pain Ambessa had wrought—not just on Vi, but on Piltover, on Zaun, and on Mel herself.
Her fingers tightened against the table’s edge, the polished surface cool beneath her touch, a grounding contrast to the storm within her. Her magic thrummed beneath her skin, restless and insistent, begging for release. It was a constant reminder of her own power, a part of herself she was still learning to control. She could feel it now, pulsing in time with her heartbeat, threatening to surge forward in response to the injustice of it all. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself, her gaze shifting briefly to Ekko, who sat calmly beside her, a pillar of strength amidst the turmoil. If he noticed her inner struggle, he didn’t show it, his focus unwavering as the council prepared to proceed.
But Mel couldn’t shake the ache in her chest, the gnawing sense that this trial—this carefully curated list of charges—could never fully encapsulate the depth of Ambessa’s crimes. Her mother’s shadow loomed over everything, and no sentence, no punishment, could erase the scars she had left behind. As the murmurs in the chamber grew louder, Mel’s grip on the table eased slightly, though the magic within her continued to simmer, waiting for a moment to be unleashed.
Ekko broke the silence, his voice steady but laced with an edge of frustration. “These charges are a start,” he said, gesturing toward the agenda panel. “But we all know they barely scratch the surface of what Ambessa Medarda has done. This trial isn’t just about holding her accountable for these crimes—it’s about what justice looks like in Piltover and Zaun.”
Some council members nodded in agreement, though others exchanged skeptical glances, their unease palpable. Mel remained silent, her gaze fixed on the table as Ekko continued.
“For seven years, Zaun called Vi’s name as a rallying cry,” Ekko said, his tone growing firmer. “She laid the foundation for change, but her absence forced us to act. With Caitlyn’s support, Zaun turned from a city of survival into a city that thrives. We owe her everything, and this trial needs to reflect that.”
Mel finally looked up, her golden eyes meeting Ekko’s with a flicker of approval. His words carried weight, but they weren’t enough to quell the turmoil roiling within her. “I agree,” she said, her voice calm but edged with steel. “But this trial will never feel like enough. It won’t undo the damage Ambessa has done—to Vi, to Zaun.” She paused, letting her words hang in the air. “We’re putting her on trial for what we can prove, not for the full scope of her crimes. And that… that feels like a failure.”
The room fell silent again, Mel’s words cutting through the chamber like a knife. A few council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats, avoiding her gaze. Ekko nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Maybe it is,” he admitted, “but it’s also a step forward. If we let her escape justice entirely, that would be the real failure.”
Mel’s hands clenched tightly in her lap, hidden beneath the folds of her dress. She wanted to believe Ekko was right, that this trial could be enough, but the image of Vi’s broken, haunted face flashed in her mind, and doubt crept in.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the murmurs in the chamber grew louder, council members debating logistics and evidence for the trial. Mel’s gaze returned to the agenda, the cold, black words staring back at her. Theft. Murder. Kidnapping. They felt hollow, inadequate to capture the weight of her mother’s actions. But this was the reality they faced. The trial would proceed, imperfect as it was, because justice—no matter how flawed—was the only path forward.
Mel finally spoke again, her voice steady but laced with an undertone of emotion that cut through the murmurs in the chamber. “The charges may be all we have,” she began, her golden eyes scanning the room, daring each council member to meet her gaze. “But they barely scratch the surface of what Ambessa Medarda has done. She didn’t just steal a gemstone or kill a handful of enforcers. She stole years of someone’s life. She took Vi—a person, not a pawn—and turned her into something unrecognizable. She tore her apart, physically and emotionally, and then pieced her back together into a weapon she could wield.” Her voice faltered briefly, a rare crack in her otherwise unyielding composure. “And yet… those crimes don’t exist within Piltover’s jurisdiction. So, how do we reconcile that?”
The chamber fell into an uneasy silence, her words hanging heavily in the air. Councilor Bolbok, seated on the far side from her, leaned forward slightly, his massive frame casting a shadow over the table. “And what of Vi?” he asked, his gravelly voice breaking the tension. “This weapon Ambessa created—this… hybrid of machine and human. Is she a danger to us all, as some reports suggest? What happens to her?”
His words ignited a murmur among the council members, their whispers spreading like wildfire. Mel’s fingers tightened against the edge of the polished table, her golden eyes narrowing as she locked onto Bolbok. The faint hum of magic stirred under her skin.
“She is a victim,” Mel said, her voice cutting through the noise with a sharp precision that silenced the room. Her words were calm but edged with fire, carrying a conviction that demanded attention. “Do not mistake what was done to her as a reflection of who she is. Vi is not a threat. She is not a weapon. She is a survivor of Ambessa’s cruelty, nothing more.”
Bolbok’s expression tightened, his sharp features unreadable, but Mel didn’t stop. She leaned forward slightly, her tone firm and unwavering. “You’re asking the wrong questions. The real danger isn’t Vi. It’s the woman who put her through hell and molded her into something she never chose to be. Ambessa Medarda is the threat you should concern yourselves with, not the person she tried to break.”
The tension in the room grew thicker, and Mel’s voice softened but remained resolute. “Vi deserves your protection, not your suspicion. The moment we start blaming the victim for what was done to her, we lose sight of justice entirely.”
Councilor Kiramman, seated just to Mel’s left at the table, leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped in front of her. Her sharp, assessing gaze settled on Mel. “You make a compelling argument, Councilor Medarda,” she began, her tone measured. “But the council must also consider the implications of Vi’s current condition. Stabilized or not, her integration with Hextech poses a risk—to herself, to those around her, and potentially to the very stability of this city.” Cassandra’s voice softened as she added, “I’ve seen her, Mel. I’ve watched her struggle every day to find balance. She’s trying, but the council cannot ignore the potential dangers.”
Mel’s jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing her eyes. She forced herself to take a steady breath, willing her voice to remain composed. “Her integration with Hextech wasn’t her choice, Councilor Kiramman. It was a matter of survival. She didn’t ask for it, and she’s doing everything she can to reclaim herself, to heal. But if you deny her that chance because of fear, then you’re no better than Ambessa.”
A hushed silence fell over the room, the weight of Mel’s words lingering like an unspoken challenge. A few council members exchanged uneasy glances, while others scribbled notes on their agendas. The comparison to Ambessa Medarda, a name that carried so much weight and menace, sent ripples of discomfort through the chamber.
Cassandra’s expression remained neutral, but her eyes revealed a flicker of conflict. “Mel, I’m not questioning Vi’s will to heal,” she said carefully. “But this council is tasked with safeguarding Piltover’s future. If her integration poses even the smallest threat to that future, we must address it.”
Mel’s fingers curled against the polished table, her knuckles darkening as she fought to temper her frustration. “Address it how, exactly?” she countered, her voice firm but controlled. “By condemning her? By casting her out like a tool you no longer trust? She’s not a weapon, Cassandra. She’s a person—a victim of my mother’s cruelty. And unlike Ambessa, Vi didn’t have a choice in the path forced upon her.”
Ekko shifted in his seat beside her, his calm but watchful demeanor lending silent support. “If we start treating victims like threats,” he interjected, his voice steady but sharp, “then we’re not solving anything. We’re just creating more enemies.”
Cassandra turned her attention to Ekko, her expression softening at his words. “You speak from experience, don’t you?” she asked, though the question carried no malice.
“I do,” Ekko replied, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “Zaun has been labeled a threat for as long as I can remember. But we’re still here, rebuilding, thriving, because people like Vi gave us hope. She doesn’t deserve to be punished for surviving.”
Mel glanced at Ekko, her tension easing slightly at his support. She turned back to Cassandra, her gaze unwavering. “Vi is not the one on trial here,” she said, her voice quiet but resolute. “And if this council starts turning on people like her, then Piltover has already lost sight of what it claims to stand for.”
Cassandra sat back in her chair, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded Mel. There was a long pause, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a blade. Finally, Cassandra gave a small nod, her tone measured but contemplative. “Your points are noted, Councilor Medarda. And I will remind this council to consider them carefully.”
Mel held her gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. She had made her stand, and for now, it seemed to hold. But she could feel the weight of the council’s scrutiny pressing down on her, a reminder that the fight for Vi’s humanity was far from over.
The room fell silent once more, Bolbok leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing, but he didn’t challenge Mel further. Her gaze shifted to the agenda panel in front of her, the black lettering listing Ambessa’s crimes a stark reminder of the battle still ahead.
Ekko’s expression hardened, his gaze sweeping across the room before settling back on Mel. Answering her original question, he brought the discussion back to its core purpose, his voice steady but firm. “We reconcile it by holding Ambessa accountable for what we can,” he said, his words cutting through the tension like a blade. “By making sure she doesn’t escape consequences again. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.”
Across the table, Councilor Salo leaned back, his skeptical gaze narrowing as he interjected. “Ambessa Medarda is no ordinary defendant,” he said, his tone measured yet laced with caution. “If we push too hard, we risk turning this trial into a political disaster. Noxus won’t stand idly by if one of their war generals is publicly humiliated in our courts. This isn’t just about justice; it’s about diplomacy, too.”
Ekko’s eyes flashed with defiance, and he interjected sharply, “Good. Let them see what happens when they cross the line. Let them see that Piltover and Zaun won’t back down just because they’re afraid of Noxus.” His words reverberated through the chamber, a challenge not just to Salo but to anyone who doubted the importance of this trial.
Mel’s jaw tightened at his words. She respected Ekko’s passion—it was a fire that had fueled Zaun’s revival—but the implications of such a bold stance weren’t as simple as he made them sound. Her fingers traced against the polished surface of the table, grounding her as she considered her response. Ambessa wasn’t just a war general or a political figure to Mel. She was her mother, and that singular fact added layers of complexity to every decision they made.
Her gaze flicked to the intricate patterns of her gold-accented dress, the shimmering fabric catching the light like her magic. “This isn’t just about Noxus,” she said quietly, her voice soft but carrying an undeniable weight. “Ambessa’s trial is a statement—to them, to us, to everyone watching. But it’s also personal, and that makes it dangerous. Justice can’t be about vengeance, no matter how much we want it to be.”
The chamber grew still, the weight of her words settling heavily over the council. Salo nodded slightly in cautious agreement, though his posture remained tense. Ekko, on the other hand, leaned back in his chair, his frustration simmering visibly beneath his otherwise calm exterior.
Mel turned to meet Ekko’s gaze, her expression softening slightly as she addressed him directly. “I want her to pay for everything she’s done, Ekko,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But we have to be smart about this. If we let emotions drive us, we lose the moral high ground, and that’s something Ambessa will use against us.”
Ekko exhaled sharply, his hands resting on the arms of his chair as he regarded Mel with a critical but thoughtful expression. “Smart doesn’t mean soft, Mel,” he replied, his tone quieter now but still resolute. “We’ve fought too hard to let this end in a slap on the wrist. Zaun deserves better. Vi deserves better.”
The mention of Vi sent a ripple of emotion through Mel, though she masked it quickly, her gaze flicking downward for the briefest moment before returning to Ekko. “We’re not going soft,” she said, her voice firm but laced with weariness. “But we have to play the long game. This trial isn’t just about Ambessa—it’s about setting a precedent. If we’re not careful, it won’t be her who suffers the consequences. It’ll be us.”
The council murmured in subdued agreement, their faces a mixture of contemplation and concern. Mel’s words had hit their mark, but she could feel the undercurrent of skepticism still lingering in the room. She looked at Ekko, her expression soft but resolute, the weight of her conviction etched into every line of her face.
“I need you to trust me on this,” she said, her tone low but urgent, her eyes locking onto his. “If we’re going to bring her to justice, we have to do it right.”
Ekko studied her for a long moment, his sharp features softening as he leaned forward slightly. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried an edge of reluctant agreement. “Alright,” he said simply, his tone quieter now but no less firm. “But don’t let her walk away from this, Mel. For Vi. For everyone.”
Mel nodded slowly, her hands steady as she folded them neatly on the table, though the weight of her vow pressed heavily against her chest. “I won’t,” she said with quiet determination, her voice firm yet carrying an undercurrent of unease. The words settled into the silence, but even as the promise lingered, Mel couldn’t shake the gnawing sense that justice, no matter how carefully pursued, would exact a price none of them were truly ready to face.
When the meeting adjourned, Mel stayed behind, her gaze following the council members and Ekko as they filed out one by one. The chamber gradually emptied, leaving her alone in the cavernous space. She tilted her head back, her golden eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the stained-glass windows above, their vibrant hues dimmed by the somber weight of the day. Yet her thoughts drifted far from the beauty overhead. Anger, guilt, and betrayal churned within her, pressing against her chest like an immovable weight.
No matter how she tried to organize the chaos in her mind, one image refused to fade: Vi at Caitlyn’s manor. The once indomitable fighter—Zaun’s protector—had been reduced to a shadow of the woman she had been. Her scars, faintly glowing in the dim light, etched across her body like fractured lines on a shattered mirror. The memory lingered, sharp and unrelenting, a reminder of everything Ambessa had destroyed—and everything Mel had yet to reconcile.
Mel’s memory of Vi’s eyes was the hardest to shake. One black as midnight, a void of pain and unspoken anguish, and the other a storm of vivid blue, crackling with restrained energy. They had met hers only briefly during her visit, but the intensity in them had been undeniable. The pain, raw and searing, had cut through Mel like a blade, leaving an ache she couldn’t quite define. Vi hadn’t said much—her silence had spoken louder than any words could—but the way she had looked at Mel, as though caught between mistrust and fragile hope, lingered in Mel’s mind. It wasn’t rejection, exactly. It was something worse: indifference born from exhaustion, a hollow resignation that haunted Mel long after she had left.
She had walked out of Caitlyn’s manor that day feeling like a stranger in her own skin. Mel had always known her mother was ruthless; she had lived with that truth etched into her being like a scar that never fully healed. But seeing the aftermath of Ambessa’s cruelty, so vividly marked on Vi’s shattered form, had shaken her in ways she hadn’t been prepared for. The scars weren’t just lines on Vi’s body—they were etched into every hesitant movement, every guarded glance, every word that never came. And yet, what disturbed Mel most wasn’t the violence Ambessa had inflicted. It was the affection Ambessa had given.
Her mother’s voice had echoed in Mel’s mind ever since that day, soft yet disturbingly tender: “She is my daughter.” The memory of those words gnawed at Mel with a bitterness she couldn’t quite suppress.
For years, Mel had fought for even the faintest sliver of Ambessa’s approval. She had endured dismissals as cold as the Noxian winters, words sharpened to wound, and expectations that felt impossible to meet. She had clawed her way toward recognition, giving everything she had to be seen, only to be met with indifference. And now, Ambessa had given her affection—freely, almost effortlessly—to someone else. The bitter irony twisted in Mel’s chest, an ache that felt like betrayal. It wasn’t Vi’s fault, but the sting remained, simmering beneath the layers of grief and guilt.
Mel had tried to make sense of it, unraveling the tangled web of emotions Ambessa’s actions had left behind. Was it love her mother felt for Vi, or was it something darker? Ambessa had always been a master strategist, seeing people as pieces to move across a board, tools to wield in her unending pursuit of power. Vi had been no exception. Ambessa had reshaped her, broken her down and rebuilt her as a weapon—a “perfect daughter.” Yet, somewhere in that process, something had shifted. Ambessa had shown Vi an affection that bordered on genuine, a care that felt out of place in the cold, calculated woman Mel had always known.
And that unnerved her more than anything. If Ambessa was capable of caring for Vi, why had she never cared for her own blood? The question gnawed at Mel’s resolve, threatening to unravel the composure she had spent years perfecting. The love she still carried for her mother—despite everything—felt like a burden she could no longer justify, but one she could never fully release.
Since that visit, Mel hadn’t returned to Caitlyn’s manor. She told herself it was for Vi’s sake—that the fractured woman needed space to heal without the shadow of their tangled, unspoken connection pressing down on her. But deep down, Mel knew the truth was more complicated. Every time she thought of Vi, seated in that sunlit room with her scars glowing faintly like fractured constellations, a knot of guilt and uncertainty twisted in her chest. Mel wasn’t sure if her presence would help Vi’s recovery or hinder it. She wasn’t sure what she could even offer someone like Vi, whose pain felt both incomprehensible and all too familiar.
A protectiveness had begun to take root in Mel—a fierce, unexpected bond that had grown despite the circumstances that had forged it. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced, raw and unrelenting. But she couldn’t ignore the feeling that she was an intruder in Vi’s life. Vi hadn’t asked for this connection, this unwanted sisterhood forged in the fires of Ambessa’s cruelty. And Mel couldn’t blame her. She understood all too well what it was like to be thrust into a role you never asked for, to carry a weight you hadn’t chosen.
And so, Mel made the difficult decision to wait. To love Vi from a distance, silently and without expectation, as if they were bound by blood. She would not force herself into Vi’s life, not until Vi was ready—if she was ever ready. Mel told herself that her patience was an act of care, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier. The questions, the guilt, and the memories lingered, pressing down on her like a weight she couldn’t shake.
Until that day came, Mel resolved to carry the burden alone—the weight of her mother’s betrayal, the bitterness of her own unspoken grief, and the unshakable need to protect Vi, even if it meant protecting her from herself. It was a quiet kind of love, one that asked for nothing in return. And for now, it was the only kind of love Mel knew how to give.
As Mel’s thoughts swirled, the faint sound of footsteps echoed through the chamber, pulling her attention away from the storm in her mind. Jayce approached her with his usual confident stride, though his posture carried a weariness she hadn’t seen before. Without his hammer, which had become as much a part of his image as his inventions, he seemed almost unguarded, more human than the imposing figure she’d grown accustomed to.
“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice cutting through the silence. His blue-gray eyes, usually sharp with determination, held a gentleness that made the question feel genuine, not perfunctory.
Mel turned her gaze to him, momentarily caught off guard by the question. For a moment, she considered brushing it off, hiding behind her usual mask of composure, but the weight of everything was too much to deflect. “I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice quieter than she intended. Her hands, resting on the polished table, fidgeted with the gold trim of her dress—a rare crack in her typically unshakable poise. “Are you?”
Jayce exhaled a faint sigh, leaning against the edge of the council table. His shoulders slouched slightly, the tension in his frame unmasked in the privacy of the empty room. “No,” he said simply, his tone tinged with exhaustion. A small, wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “But that’s nothing new.”
Mel studied him for a moment, her golden eyes tracing the subtle signs of strain etched into his face—the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the shadows beneath them, the tightness in his jaw. Jayce had always been a symbol of Piltover’s strength and ambition, but here, stripped of the public’s expectations, he looked just as weighed down as she felt.
“Does it ever get easier?” Mel asked, her voice quiet but laced with a vulnerability she rarely allowed herself to show.
Jayce’s brow furrowed slightly, and he tilted his head as if considering her words carefully. “Not really,” he admitted after a moment, his voice steady but unguarded. “But you learn to carry it better. And sometimes… you find people who help lighten the load.”
Mel’s gaze dropped, her fingers stilling against the fabric of her dress. She thought of Vi, her mother, and the tangled mess of emotions she carried. “And what if the people who matter most are the ones who make it harder?” she murmured, her tone almost a whisper, as though saying the words too loudly would make them more real.
Jayce straightened slightly, his full attention on her now. He didn’t answer immediately, his expression softening as he let the weight of her question settle. “Then you figure out why they matter,” he said finally, his voice low and deliberate. “And if they do… you don’t give up on them. Even when it feels impossible. Especially then.”
His words struck something deep within her, cutting through the chaos of her thoughts. Mel nodded slowly, her composure returning in small, hesitant pieces. “You make it sound so simple,” she said, a faint, bitter smile curving her lips.
Jayce chuckled softly, the sound warm despite the tension in the room. “It’s not,” he replied, his voice carrying a quiet strength. “But nothing worth fighting for ever is.”
For a moment, they stood in a silence that was anything but empty, the weight of the trial and their own personal burdens pressing down on them like an invisible force. The faint hum of the council chambers seemed distant, swallowed by the raw energy between them. Jayce didn’t offer words—no hollow reassurances or platitudes that would have felt brittle against the storm raging inside Mel.
Instead, Mel stepped closer, pulling him into an embrace that was as desperate as it was unyielding. His strong arms wrapped around her instinctively, his grip firm yet gentle, as though he could physically hold together the pieces of her that threatened to fall apart. They had been together for seven years, and their love had been tested by fire, politics, and ambition, but tonight Mel’s composure cracked. It wasn’t just a break—it was a fracture, deep and irreparable, seeping into the space between them like smoke suffocating a room. Jayce felt it in the way her fingers clutched at his back, trembling, as though holding onto him was the only thing keeping her from shattering entirely.
She buried her face against his chest, her breath warm and unsteady against the fabric of his shirt. For a moment, she stayed there, as if drawing strength from his heartbeat, from the solid presence of him. But then she pulled back, just far enough to meet his gaze, and the vulnerability in her golden eyes hit him like a physical blow. They shimmered with unshed tears, and her hands clung to his shirt, her knuckles white, as if letting go would send her spiraling into an abyss she couldn’t climb out of.
When she kissed him, it wasn’t the calculated, confident Mel he was used to—it was raw, almost frantic, her lips trembling against his as though trying to convey everything she couldn’t say aloud. There was no grace in it, only desperation, the kind that came from carrying too much for too long. Jayce responded without hesitation, his hands moving to cradle her face, his touch impossibly gentle for someone so strong. He deepened the kiss, not to take control but to steady her, to show her that he was there and wouldn’t waver. His lips moved against hers, deliberate and measured, letting her pour every unspoken feeling into the connection.
Her hands slid to his jacket, fumbling slightly as she tugged it free from his shoulders, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric with an almost trembling urgency. Her fingertips lingered on his shoulders for a moment before pushing the jacket away completely, the material sliding down his arms and falling to the floor in a forgotten heap. Her movements were unsteady, the weight of her emotions spilling over into every touch. Jayce didn’t resist; he let her guide him, his steady gaze holding hers, silently conveying that she didn’t need to carry this alone. Her palms pressed firmly against his chest as she pushed against him, the warmth of her hands seeping through his shirt, grounding her as much as it grounded him.
The council table, with its polished brass fixtures and intricate carvings, faded into irrelevance. The grandeur of the room—the stained glass filtering fractured light, the gleaming surfaces that reflected power and status—became a forgotten backdrop to the raw humanity of the moment. Her fingers lingered on his chest, tracing the faint ridges of his muscles beneath the fabric. With a sudden yet deliberate motion, she unbuttoned his shirt, her hands trembling slightly as she slipped it off his shoulders, exposing the firm lines of his body beneath.
Her own dress followed soon after, her hands moving with purpose as she reached behind to unfasten it, the rich fabric slipping down her body and pooling at her feet. She stood before him, her breath catching in her throat, her vulnerability laid bare not in her physicality but in the unguarded emotion in her eyes.
Mel moved closer, her steps faltering slightly but never losing their intent as she guided him backward toward the table. Her hands slid down to his belt, working with a quiet urgency as she freed him from its constraints. In one fluid motion, she pushed him into the chair beside the table, his broad frame sinking into it as she followed, settling on his lap with a weight that felt both hesitant and deliberate. Her knees pressed into the sides of the chair as her arms wrapped around his neck, her breath coming in uneven bursts.
Her arms framed his face, her hands gripped his hair tightly as she leaned in, their foreheads pressing together. Her breath was hot against his skin, her lips hovering near his but not quite meeting. Her fingers combed through his hair, threading through the soft strands with a kind of desperation, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
Jayce steadied her with his hands, one resting firmly on her lower back, the other lightly brushing the curve of her hips. His touch was deliberate, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns across her skin as though willing her to feel the calm he was offering. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the way her body rolled against his, and he responded with an unyielding steadiness, his hands grounding her as her emotions surged.
Her arms tightened around him, her head dipping to bury against the crook of his neck. He felt the warmth of her breath ghosting against his collarbone, her exhale shaky and uneven. She clung to him, her fingers gripping his shoulders with a kind of frantic need, her movements a silent plea for reassurance. Each roll of her hips meeting his gentle thrusts. He didn’t pull her back or try to stop her; he simply let her be, his hands continuing their silent reassurances, his touch speaking the words she couldn’t voice.
Every touch, every glance, every movement was deliberate, carrying a depth that words could never capture. Jayce’s hands moved with purpose, tracing the curve of her spine with a gentleness that felt almost reverent. His fingertips lingered on each vertebra, their slow, deliberate path grounding her in a way that words never could. He could feel the tremors of tension still lingering in her body, the way her breath hitched with each pass of his hands. She was still holding on to the storm within, but piece by piece, it began to loosen, melting under the steady rhythm of his touch.
Mel’s arms tightened around him, her fingers gripping his shoulders with a desperation that cut through the silence. Her forehead rested against his, the slight tremble of her body betraying the vulnerability she tried so hard to hide. Her breath was warm against his skin, uneven and shallow, carrying the weight of the emotions she couldn’t voice. The strands of her dark hair clung to her damp skin, framing her face in a way that made her look both fragile and unbreakable all at once.
Jayce let his hands travel lower, resting one firmly against her lower back while the other slid up to the nape of her neck. His fingers combed through her hair with a tenderness that matched the strength in his hold. He wasn’t trying to fix her—he knew he couldn’t—but his touch promised something far more meaningful: presence. His steady, grounding movements spoke of a commitment to hold her through the weight of it all, no matter how heavy.
Mel’s head dipped further, her lips grazing the crook of his neck, her breath shaky as it ghosted across his skin. She clung to him, her hands slipping to the sides of his face, framing it as though needing to anchor herself. Her thumbs brushed the faint stubble along his jawline, tracing its sharp edges with an unsteady reverence. Her touch was both hesitant and desperate, as though unsure whether she was seeking solace or forgiveness.
“Don’t let go,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly, the rawness in her tone cutting through the stillness of the room. The words carried the weight of every unspoken fear, every crack in the armor she had spent years crafting.
“Never,” he replied, his voice steady and grounding, the conviction in his tone wrapping around her like a promise. His hands tightened on her, his fingers pressing gently but firmly into the curve of her back and the softness of her leg. His thumb grazed her hip, tracing a small, soothing arc that seemed to echo the words he didn’t speak aloud. He didn’t let her pull away, holding her close as though his presence alone could absorb the pain she carried.
Mel shifted slightly, her body fitting against his as though she belonged there. Her long hair, damp with exertion and emotion, clung to her shoulders, its weight forgotten in the moment. She let herself lean into him, her breathing gradually slowing as the warmth of his body enveloped her. His heartbeat was steady beneath her hands, its rhythm grounding her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. She pressed closer, her lips brushing his jaw in a barely-there motion, the contact more an affirmation of trust than anything else.
Jayce responded in kind, tilting his head to meet her gaze. His eyes, soft but unwavering, searched hers for a moment before he cupped her face in both hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks gently, brushing away the stray tears that had begun to fall. The silence between them was heavy but not stifling, filled with a shared understanding that required no words.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, but the raw sincerity in it echoed through the space between them. Her hands pressed harder against his chest, as though afraid that letting go would send her spiraling back into the chaos.
Jayce didn’t reply with words. Instead, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, the gesture filled with quiet reverence. His lips lingered there for a moment, their warmth a silent reassurance that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere. His hands moved once more, trailing down her sides in a slow, deliberate motion, his touch grounding her further as she relaxed against him.
For a long moment, they stayed like that, suspended in the quiet between breaths. The world outside the room—its demands, its chaos—could wait. Here, in this fragile yet unshakable moment, they allowed themselves to simply be. The silence was heavy but not oppressive, filled with the echoes of unspoken struggles and shared burdens. It wasn’t a solution, and it wouldn’t erase the pain she carried.